She envelops the chair across
the desk from me, glancing
up with eyes a little wide
and a wrinkled, hopeful brow.
She’s sat in places like this
a hundred times. The pattern,
like a millstone, has worn
a groove in her life;
she no longer sees an escape.
Her fight against foraging
in aisles laden with chips
and freezers of custard
regenerates unchanged
as Cosmo mocks her
through the checkout.
Still, under the scornful weight
of her near defeated will,
from far behind every
short, gasping breath,
She pushes on in hope.
She begs for freedom’s taste,
to walk swift, with grace,
down any street, path, or aisle,
to turn her head and maybe–
see an admiring face.
I proffer my open hand,
choosing to be caught
in her endless task
that’s likely too large
for either of us to push aside.
It is my curse to try.