The Gauntlet



A rogues' gallery of widows
They line the benches
Quietly observing
Drawn out by the sun
Hands folded patiently in sunken laps
Chests barely moving
Their eyes probe and stare
Note the dress from Saks
The unwashed and the tattered
T-shirt
And denim

Their expressions merge in common judgment
Sorting the flow into chosen
And blessed
Fallen
And distressed

A Sunday afternoon gateway
To Heaven
And to Hell
They sit on the edge of Time
Each holding a front row seat
Just below the footlights