After rubbing polish remover
over her nails with a paper towel,
she pokes and digs at her cuticles
with a thin, silvery cuticle remover.
Concentration strains at her brow
as she pokes and scrapes,
then holds her hand
under the light for a better look
before poking and scraping again.

She doesn’t talk. She’s not watching TV.
She doesn’t notice me staring at her,
jotting down my observations
of her leaning forward so intensely,
the tip of her sweet, pretty, pink tongue
peaking slightly out from between her lips.
She’s a delicate white dove preening herself
at the end of a long and windy flight.

“This is too dark,” she declares abruptly,
holding her hands with their new
shiny, cranberry-colored nails up for me to see.
Before I can respond she pours
more polish remover onto
the paper towel and begins rubbing
her nails again, oblivious to me
even being in the room with her.