The Dime

Mrs. Peterson, by the stop,

her old coat worn, about to drop.

She fumbled coins, a tired hand,

a different person, than I'd planned.

Her glasses slid, her face drawn thin,

the bus was late, the wind cut in.

A dime fell down, a silver flash,

she didn't see, just scraped her cash.

That English voice, once sharp and clear,

was just a whisper, full of fear.

She shrank right there, beneath the sky,

a small, lost woman passing by.