Grey-haired and slim, she must be sixty.
As she walks towards the stairs she
lets her hand run along
the weathered wood fence,
perhaps to hear it tsk-tsk-tsk
beneath her fingers, or maybe
just to get the sense of something
textured, from standing out in the sun
and the rain and the snow, after a day spent
shuffling paper and tapping plastic keys.
She smiles to herself as she passes, alone in the crowd.
There's a little girl in the old body yet.