Current | Anne Britting Oleson
He gave you the news
while you sat between dinner
and coffee, the linen
stained beside the plate where
he'd laid his silver down.
Now he played with the spoon,
turning it over in his long fingers,
his eyes turned to the window,
beyond which the river flowed
like smoke into the fading light:
silvered, a hardness like coins,
with all color bled away.
His profile, minted, expressionless,
reflected in the glass, and you,
unable to understand the words,
stared instead at the single swan,
a slash against all that gray,
as it drifted slowly with the current,
drifted slowly away, its head
tucked beneath one folded wing.