The elderly women in their laminate
covered chairs knit with thin
and nimble fingers, wearing
floral summer dresses as a breeze floats
through the nearby window, top pane
propped outward with a book.
It’s cliché, I know, one has a sweater
draped over her shoulders, but she does
and who am I to call her typical.
Outside the mud stained door
of the brick building where the ladies visit, dust
floats as particles made visible by the violent
sun, carried nowhere by the gentle wind.
Each one passes me by. I cannot
gather them together for knitting.

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