There was a woman, a lady, on the metro train
who you could see, despite all the pain,
had once been the most beautiful girl in the world,
with a mane of black hair that about her face curled,
and she loved with greatest lovers of her time
(and loved them still in her departing mind.)
At her feet played a child born not long ago,
the only joy left in this lady’s woe,
the only true way to bring a smile to her face,
for though yet strong, smooth, and free from age,
was tired and weakened by the passing of life,
the passing of family, now a widow, not a wife,
and all this she told in her sad way
as she sat wondering when madness would have its day
and whether her sadness would take her away.
Clapping and dancing the child jumped from her knee
stealing the smile, leaving dark memory
and ran, fleeting, past me to the other side.
Looking from one to the next I could not decide
to whom I was closer - sure, the child in age;
but looking twice, it was Grandmother, in so many ways.