Across the
way
I look down
On the 9th
floor balcony
Where each morning
they sit
The aging
husband and wife
He reads the
paper
Sips coffee
Swaddled in
his white robes
She is
dressed more brightly
And each
morning he is there
The dutifully
son
Caring for her
She is old
With bones
so sore
Which he
massages and moves
Lifting her
arm this way and that
Helping to
keep the stiffness away
Communing with
his beloved matriarch
In the
dawning warmth
Helping her
to still be her
She must
move
Much more
than the old man
Next he will
comb her flowing black hair
She can no
longer comb for so long
This ritual
continues
For most of
the morning
As the son tirelessly
cares for her
Father sits
and reads
Comments
about news and such
Asks for a
refill, and another
Remains
until the heat is too much
Only to
relocate inside
To wait
again
As she cooks
the midday meal
