Third Party

The man looks at the woman seated in the sun,

on the sun seated on the steps.

She doubles over, and the wet tresses

fall like snakes onto her knees.

She starts combing, slowly.

The comb cannot handle the larger masses

so she splays the fingers of her right hand

while the left palm is open.

When fingers reach palm,

she gently separates wads of hair,

like opening a hundred tiny curtains.

He sits and smokes and watches.

She tosses back her mane, looks up.

He smiles as if the sun has just

appeared, when in reality it has vanished.

A cloudiness shrouds them both,

eating their shadows, still hungry.

But her hair is dry, and his cigarette dead.

They go inside where the glow

of electric lights evens everything,

except for the odds.

What is left is waiting.

Waiting is always left,

like someone standing impatiently

in line to purchase lung cancer

or drink in which to drown.

There is nothing to do about the third party.

There is only going about the day

with dry hair and dry thoughts,

adopted from the sun's early arc,

from the shadows,

the absence of shadow

from the light on the ground

to the smooth knot of dark.

Copyright Julianza K. Shavin 2009