Like a popup figure in a child’s book
the old lady lifts out of her chair
by pushing up with her hands on the table top
where screws groan silently with the wish
to just let go and hear wood splinter
against her face with puffs of rouge
dusting into the air like tiny souls
gleefully free of wrinkles and moles
to dance with dust motes disappearing
from sunshine rays highlighting
distorted lipstick kissing wooden grains
like eyes trying to focus on feet
standing beneath her or not
before untethering from the table
and wobbling down the aisle toward
her exit destination.

-- Diane Webster