I am next in the queue
you insist, waving me forward.
Shaking my head I stand back.
We gaze at each other for a moment.
You see a woman surely twice
your age; I see not only fresh beauty
but a fading sunset of bruises
encircling one eye.
You turn your hand palm up;
a casual gesture or
so I can study that wrist,
its neat stitches.