old lady poetry

'Old Lady Poetry'

I came again to the small table
where she keeps her scraps—
the brittle corners of yesterday's paper,
the thin envelope she never sent,
the coin she saved for a bus fare
she no longer needs.

She looked at me the way
a cupboard looks at a thief:
quiet, resigned, already knowing
what will be taken.

I told myself I would only borrow
a little—
just enough language
to get through the night.

And the drawer slid open
and there they were:
her last two mites,
wrapped in a handkerchief
soft from years of folding.

I should have stepped back.
I should have let her keep
whatever small wealth
she had left.

Instead, I pocketed them—
those tiny glints of her living—
and walked out with the weight
of what I'd done
pressing against my ribs.

Now every line I write
feels like it was bought
with her breath.

Every page carries the faint
tremour of her loss.

And when people say
the poem has a certain ache,

I know why:
it's the sound of an old woman
searching her empty drawer
for what I took.

.