Sunday at Maggie's; Almost Dusk

She unfolded her spectacles
With such a slight movement
That the small click was devastating --
A decibal between settling dust and shuffling feet --
But more like maple seeds dashed against a wet windshield.

She was intimate with such small things,
The smells of geraniums.
The lush energy between earth and air.
Weak beams of light.

And it was the small way she focused her needle gray eyes,
Tapping excess tea from her thin spoon,
That charged the rented room,
Making me feel like embroidery thread
Bound too severely to course, mothballed fabric.

I knew her question.
She knew my answer.