Cubicle Woman and me
The minutes move slowly, floating
through non-uniform waves of air
Here is solid, always, interminable
A small, dark woman,
waiflike were she not so clearly lined
from age or weathering
Her movements almost frail,
yet surely determined,
movements like one in a dream
where objects may so easily
transform
Not like this solid place, this
monastery of healing
All in gradations of white,
air almost frigidly white
welcome in the fever
White walls, clarified air
take well to imagery
Vivid primitive paintings
cadmium yellow, vermillion, cobalt blue
flashing, mutating here to there
We are in an old movie
of danger and romance
Silently, without smile or frown,
she stirs sugar from bright white packets
into her curl of steam
hearth and home.
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