Counting down the beeps

On the curb, beneath the flashing man, a lady stumbles,
steadying herself with an almost imperceptible cold, bony
grip. Fragile smile, deep creases gently receding.
Dwarfed by thread-bare haute couture with mummified fox fur collar.
She shuffles across.
Drivers impatiently tapping the wheel and counting down the beeps.
Turn back the years, her touch was warm and strong,
perfectly fitting skin, the fox fur fresh from the chase.
She glided across.
The rhythmic rise and fall a welcome distraction from
counting down the beeps.

Matthew Smith

If you have any comments on this poem, Matthew Smith would be pleased to hear them.