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Old woman sat alone
on a two-seater table
in the window of the bakers,
shop half unopened around her,
nibbling, squirrel-like,
at her (antiquated) toasted teacake.
Treating herself.
Teacup, devoid of saucer in this
harsh, modern world.
Plate, knife, spoon arranged
symmetrically, a bad habit
from her childhood enraged
by old age and the taunt
of senile dementure.
Old woman sat alone
like a bulldog, all jowl
and foul expression.
The youth of yesterday,
an attitude problem armed
with a walking stick
and a blue rinse.
21 again if she closes her eyes,
ignores her aching joints,
rheumy fingers. She's waiting
for him in the shadows,
breeze blowing freshly washed hair
in her eyes. Shivering
beneath her thin cardigan.
He steals up behind her
wraps his arms around her
slim waist. Shared laughter,
warm glow, brilliant smile.
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