They are warriors, these women
who glide out onto the street
flashing their indicators
more than is strictly necessary.
They open their faces to the sun
like poppies, waving to neighbours,
their hands gnarled as oak bark,
feet armoured in dirty slippers.
They beat their bounds, natty in berets,
sometimes with cats on their laps.
We witness these jaunts but never stop to talk.
We fear these pavement days. Soon,
we too will leave dusty unused rooms
sallying forth shoeless into the blessed sun.