With the trained ease of a traffic marshal
she hails the N° 11 bus,
its hefty weight lumbering down the hill
towards her. Without a flap or a fuss
she finds a seat, her cane tapping around
like the proboscis of a giant insect;
some shuffle in a gesture of goodwill
while others act as if they too were blind.
Her straw hat a lattice of morning light,
she takes out her novel of embossed dots,
runs her fingers lightly over the Braille
like a stylus in a new 45
and seems utterly glad to be alive.
This cannot be said for the rest of us.
(2019 Maria W. Faust Sonnet Contest, Laureate's Choice)