Quietly Weeping

Her complexion the finest
deep-brown velvet, silky lashes
over large brown eyes, sensuous
lips and hair in comely, costly
cornrows, she balanced cellphone,
totebag, drink and self as she
stood in the lengthening line of
the elderly, the obese, the cranky
wheelchair bound, all eyes
focused on her dewy youth.

Everyone awaiting their turn to
present green hospital card and
white-red Health card for entry into
the universal records system. No one
wants to be there, begrudging the
merest acknowledgement of those
waiting before them; but be there
they must, to sustain health and
future. Suddenly a sharp crash
on the tiled industrial floor.

Her cellphone shattered as it
struck; no one but she moves to
retrieve the parts and employ long
and graceful fingers in reassembly.
A miracle; survival of the cellphone.
A collective sigh: if only those awaiting
attention could be put together again
just as readily, painlessly, without
recourse to invasive, and so horribly
fear-inducing surgical intervention.

Her turn at the desk, surrendering
her cards, the waiting line before her
depleted, those behind steadily growing.
She murmurs affirmative responses
to routine queries. Clad in skin-tight
jeans, figure-hugging jacket, she is a
slight figure, delicate, as she bends
toward the reception desk, lowers
head on her arms and quietly weeps.