the women

I watch them all
the old women-
the gravel-voice
cackle laughing former smokers-
grandmothers, all.
they remind me of Clara
how she would have been
if she had be harder.
They see me walk in
still tired and disheveled
a head full of hair that will not be smoothed
they see someone they might like better
than the girls their grandsons brings over at Christmas
I see them-
the lines on their faces
that finally allow them to be honest with each other
I see us
who we will be
when we are softer.