Shannon Costello

The cathedral arches high—
dominating grandly,
ornate in stony magnificence,
tremendous.

People mill about—
chattering happying,
fancy cameras snapping pictures,
animated.

The diminutive woman is like a statue against the gate-post—
neatly combed, white hair atop bundled clothing, silent,
bag outstretched, too oppressed to raise her head, to meet our eyes,
pleading.

I look back at her—
fighting back tears,
wishing things were different,
ashamed.