The Little Things

[71degrees]

It looked like a little painting,
what the painter sees,
only it was the little things

the aging couple, at the little cafe,
the tiny tables, the man, his hair white,
thinning, thick glasses, the empty plate
in front of him pushed to the middle
of the table; he was eating cherry pie,
he held his fork in his left hand
like a music baton, accessible

the little woman across from him,
her hair also white, a soft hat on,
like a little bird in a nest,
she was still sipping chicken soup,
a glass of water, ice half-melted, half
empty, it seemed like she was waiting
for something small, a bit of conversation

this aging couple, they love each other;
the man’s free right hand touching
her left index finger, a small gesture;
in a few short minutes, they will depart
for whatever time is left for them
to be together, it must seem like
they are down to the final minutes
of a long running theater play