Simian Crone
Down
in the shadows
still very still,
she labors away
Her widow’s hump.
Her grizzled pelt.
Her chin upon
her boney chest.
Others frolic,
scamper and collide.
She pays them
no mind, rubbing
something
so fast
her arm blurs.
She has a project,
an obsession, you might say,
What can it be?
Hasn’t she heard?
“Creativity peaks at 40."