Every afternoon at two-fifteen they come
in a procession of chairs and walkers
or unaided in a slow and ponderous shuffle
backs hunched against the unkindnesses of time
to assemble in the great room for tea.

They enjoy this ritual
the sturdy cups of Orange Pekoe
cookies and squares that break up a day
words exchanged, although not always heard
by folk whose paths might not have crossed before.

It’s a slow dance, lead by invisible partners.

It’s the last dance, and they’re saving it
for every afternoon at two-fifteen.

This poem received an honourable mention in the 2005 Canadian Poetry Society's 20th Anniversary poetry contest.
Used here with the author’s permission.