Stick

Nobody notices her,
As she enters the room,
Hands in the pockets of her green anorak,
Feet in the pockets of her sensible shoes.

She never takes the comfy chair,
But lowers her twig-like body,
As if by crane,
Onto the wooden chair.

She is not so much an age,
As an attitude.
Not so much a face,
As a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles.

Nobody notices her,
Hands clasped,
In silent prayer.
Only she says grace.

She drops her fork,
Embarrassed,
By the apology,
That they pretend not to hear.

After the meal,
Nobody asks,
"Mind if I smoke?".
She so obviously does,

Nobody notices,
The candlelight,
Reflecting from the crucifix,
Lying at her withered breast.

She is the first to leave,
Unnoticed.

And in the loneliness,
Of her world,
She lies awake in the darkness,
Gently sobbing.