My bare feet graze the trolley’s metal floor.
The apricot-flamed scarf
winds its way from head to toe, a cotton shield,
and tucks lightly around you: my silent, hidden
son. You are quiet and eager.
My eyes dart, diligent, from your eyes
to chin to forehead, tracing the well-worn
circuit of you. My gaze is only yours,
and you, my copper-gauzed world.
We sit in a row on the pressed wood bench: dolls
on a playroom shelf, our tourists queued up
outside the museum. Lost in thoughts and dreams.
The split seconds
between the now and the next
are frozen in frame--
your tongue darts back and forth--
your coo a small mewing--
we are unsuspecting
passengers for one moment more,
and then the seconds
will collapse into each other,
and we will follow.
Catherine Ruffing Drotleff
A non-profit fundraiser by day, and a poet by night, Catherine Ruffing Drotleff writes to place herself in the world and to observe that place over time and space. A Midwesterner by birthright and a Chicagoan by choice, Catherine's work has appeared in Rattle and Blue Hour Magazine.
The Ekphrastic Review
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