In the cubicle, pressed for time,
she gets up, for a little break,
whining like this work's a crime,
she must return, for her children's sake.
At the restaurant, painfully alone,
he orders wine, to be discrete,
two glasses down, and rings the phone,
stood up again, by an empty seat.
In a cell, shut up tight,
shut for too long, he repents no more,
cursing guards, in full sight,
just two more years and out the door.
In the hospital, waiting out,
she was steady, but not now,
every whisper like a shout,
praying for life, but now, how?