the antique

with a collar of fur
around her small shoulders,
a necklace of pearls,
against the ruffled blouse,
rings, a cluster of stars
on her married hand,
she eats a spoon
of scrambled eggs,
careful not to spill
as a child would.
sitting as still as a
powdered pastry in a window.
her face is lineless,
her eyes cat blue.
there is no frown or
smile upon her as she
eats, slowly. her
man, her help, leans
over and whispers
in her ear. she nods
yes. he pours her coffee,
adjusts her wheelchair
moving it closer
to the tables edge.
she stares at you across
the room, as you stare
at her. she is an antique
clock, still ticking.