by Isha Fazili
She sits with wide eyes at the corner of the street
on the corner of her chair.
He moves through stumbling voices
serving each with a nod.
His angled hands ache for more
than hollow gestures,
her long fingers trace empty dreams
into the table’s dust.
Her request falters in her tightening throat
as his question is left in the lines of his back.
Hope is the spilling honey that sweetens their cups.
Last updated November 30, 2016