The Late Miss Rigby

She is
all the lonely people
hiding behind doors,
walking at night,
experiencing life
vicariously
through lighted
windows and
television screens.

She has
watched him from
the safety of darkness
as he darns his socks,
noting the shape
of his lovely head
now bent
over his desk, writing.

On Sunday
she goes to the 8 o'clock
to take bread
from his hands
sip wine from his cup.
alongside two other
people, always
the same.

The service
ends, he nods and
touches her glove,
oblivious.
She remembers
the face she has left
at home in a jar,
frozen.

She shivers,
tries to speak
but has no words.
He puts out a hand
as she starts to sway.
Too late;
he will never know
she will never know.
All the lonely people.