Let me know what you think of this one, if you're reading...

Be honest now!



At the sink, with La Traviata on the radio

The ink suspended mid-thought, dried
in the trappings of nib and well, succumbs

to gentle swooshing in hand-warm water
where she bathed me once too, small as I was then.

She stands for this uncommon ritual.
It will take as long as opera for the colours to loosen,

for the sink to deepen to lichen green or summer blue.
Only the red stains her wrinkling palms

as the stubborn brown gives way to her patient hands rocking
back and forth in a humming of arias.