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."