Bossy sister spreads butter on my scone
in the coffee shop we happened upon
at Nicholson and Drummond.
Shy sister reaches in to add peach jam.
Playful sister’s blue eyes dance
to see me indulge in such a treat.
If my sisters weren’t here, I might
eat that scone plain – what with
runners, bikers, and skinny-pants walkers
passing by the plate glass window.
But the three of them would get
in a frenzy at such nonsense.
Bossy would go off on a rant.
Don’t even think of wasting time
fretting over a pound – and she
wouldn’t mean money – or nursing
that false hope of preserving health
or, let’s be honest, beauty!
Shy would nod her head right off her neck.
Playful would twist up her mouth.
I notice all the artists I’ve heard singing
on the shop radio are female.
Turning to mention that, I see
only empty stools at my table.
I feel the sorrow of knowing
my sisters are gone.
How soon before I join them
in some other dimension?
Do they mind that I’m in no hurry?
Will they forgive my reluctance
if I tell them how grateful I am
they stopped by to make sure
I put butter on my scone?
Carol A. Smith is an MFA in Poetry candidate at Arcadia University. Over the past 30 years, she has taught language arts, literacy, and college composition. She writes personal and sociopolitical poems, often reflecting upon the intersections of the two. Carol and her husband live in Southern New Jersey.
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