In her world

She’s old her eyes have
the faded shade
of stone washed denim,
dressed in black,
“since my husband died,” she says,
sits in my café and drink
a cup of hot chocolate  
every afternoon.

Not married,
she has been alone too long
has invented her children,
sits and talk to
them on the mobile phone;
awful children
her mobile never rings,
tells me that one daughter is a lawyer