This night a woman came
And asked for books on Manson,
Her voice, annoying,
Above the sotto voce of the place.
And then, just as loud,
Exclaimed, “I’m eighty-seven.
I remember when…”
And before that, still too loud,
Sentence was unwound,
My heart undone,
Gave up its hardness.
I took in the longish wisps
Of hair upon her chin
The slightly rheumy eyes,
And listened on and on,
To the still loud voice,
Discourse on and on;
Music, Socratic schools,
The Great Depression.