an old woman
in a burgundy coat and black scarf
having eaten alone yet again,
pads her way
in black snow boots
with faux fur tops toward the glass door,
when I spot her twin—
in matching clothes
arriving from the parking lot side,
her left hand rising in perfect sync
with the woman’s right,
then pulling in concert
with the woman’s push,
opening the door.
The twin disappears,
and you imagine she’s gone on ahead,
slipping without a key
into a locked car
to appear through the window
on the driver’s side,
pushing to the woman’s pulling
until the car door, too, is open.
Her twin, never worn to the bone
by grinding out a life,
has slipped out of the car
and peers through the windshield now,
for, without constraints
placed on her by culture,
she’s no doubt climbed
over the fender
and up onto the hood,
this limber and loving kin
checking in on the old woman
who inserts the key
into the ignition and pulls
slowly away from the curb.
