Another Poem

Get-togethers

Before lunch in the parish hall,

the old women sit silently

at the long tables –

waiting for grace.

They are sharp-eyed, unsmiling, dour;

their wrinkles set in place by the confidence of duty –

waiting for grace.

I grip my plastic glass to the point of breaking,

I have just about smiled my face to pieces.

Such serenity as theirs is hard-bought.

I am brittle

and still

waiting for grace.

(September 29, 2010)