Sam makes a right onto Broadway,

Where she’s meeting her mom for tea.

It’s two o’clock on a Thursday,

and the sun glares through the trees.

The two haven’t talked in three weeks,

Not since the morning Sam stormed out.

Sam parks, and checks her makeup and teeth.

Her brow is all wrinkled with doubt.

Maggie’s been rehearsing for days.

She must make her daughter agree.

Maggie’s her mom; Sam has no say.

Marriage offers no guarantees,

for the strong, let alone the weak.

The sun on her hand brings about

shadowed lines like bark on a tree.

(Her hand is all wrinkles and gout.)

“I’m no child,” Maggie starts to say— 

Sam replies, “Well, you are to me.”

Then they listen to the cafe.

“I love you Sam, you’re my baby.

My daughter, my little sweet pea,

Stop being selfish, and don’t pout.

If you looked deeper, you’d agree 

Our souls can’t wrinkle when aired out.”

Sam leans back and sips her green tea,

thinks back to how this came about.

In the afternoon sun, Sam sees,

every wrinkle, and beauty throughout.

Photo by Prabhat Saraswat / Flickr