Palm Sunday

We're all together at Tony's Di Napoli on west 43rd,
a family style restaurant not far from Town Hall.
The waiter clears the remains
of our half-eaten chocolate decadence
as we relax in the ebb of quiet conversation.

Lynne lays her hands on the table, palms up.
In her left is Jocelyn's right,
in her right, Andrea's left.
They sit hand-in-hand around this small table
like full-bellied fortune tellers gazing
into the crystal ball of an empty wine glass.

Buoyed by this confluence
of beauty, grace and contentment,
I close my eyes to fix in my memory
a souvenir snapshot of this reunion meal.
But, as I prepare to file this family portrait
I find it somehow linked to the fresh imprint
of the old woman I saw this afternoon
standing alone on Broadway -
a river of inhumanity flowing by her,
each pair of eyes dropping to the safety
of the sidewalk's flat denial.

I paste both pictures onto a single page
of my mind's scrapbook accepting
that each recollection of this Ozzie
and Harriet moment will remind me also
of the mold colored kerchief framing her face
and how one hand wobbled on a makeshift cane
while the other was extended
toward indifferent passers by
palm up, begging for some coins
or a hand to hold.