Noon

The east gate doesn't lock, so I cut through —

four minutes faster. I had somewhere to be.

Two women on a bench between the rows,

sandwiches out, completely free

of hurry, by the look of them.

One laughed. I caught the word Tuesday.

Behind them: a stone with a name, two years.

The light came flat and straight, the way

noon light does — no shadow.

I kept walking. Picked up the prescription.

Came back through. They were still there,

same position,

still talking. Still on Tuesday.

I went home. Put the bag down.

The word Tuesday. The name on the stone.

The two of them, still in that town —

the flat noon light, the bench, their lunch.

The stone behind them.