Every Sunday Poem by Quinn Ferry

Two wrinkled faces would
seat themselves in the corner of the same restaurant.
Bodies worn by time but with two eyes that shines
for each other.
The man insisted on sitting next to her, rather than across.
The woman insisted on her prayers.
The same meal every week.
Two regulars-
whose eyes shined for each other
like virgins on the edge of a first kiss.
Until one Sunday.
He was without her and she without him.
But he kept coming back.
And bought a meal for lips that could no longer whisper.
He chose rather, not to pray.
But knew that sometime no matter when,
That they would share their meals again.