meeting ruby

i see her in
the window as
she waits for me,
ruby, and her soup,
her wool hat
pulled down
tight over grey
locks that curl
like commas at
the worn collar
of her coat.
she looks up with
eyes as thinly blue
as the soup she
sips with a hard
steel spoon. there
is a broken cracker
in her hand and her
lips are tight with
the taste of salt,
of years gone by,
of where she will
be too soon. she
swears she's fifty
four, but that was
twenty years ago,
or more. i go in.
what else can i do?
and i don't feel
sadness for her,
or for me, but for
the world at large
that has brought
us together on
this winter's night.