so my dear, how are you?

the sheer

curtains letting in a cold

white

swath

of light across the room

does little

to brighten things,

the old sofa

worn

grey and torn by cat's

claws,

and spills.

the oriental rug from

India,

faded,

the reds and greens

gone pale, 

mottled flat,

and her legs resting in

brown shoes,

leaning towards

her cup

of tea,

hardly a sound made,

just the clock

on the wall ticking.

she whispers when she talks,

saying,

with her blue

eyes,

and thin lips,

with concern, 

so my dear, how are you?