Evening hovers over the rooftops.

It falls on the laborer
squatting in a hot bath,
his muscles exhausted and aching.


It falls on the butcher
wiping the blood from her knife,
removing her soiled white apron.


It falls on the yarn store clerk
as she tucks colored spools
back into their wooden bins.


It falls on the sandal maker
weaving her shoes from strings,
Mona Lisa looking over her shoulder.


It falls on the doctor
closing his old leather bag
with a sad, slow movement of his hand.


It falls on the widow
sitting down to her first meal alone.
The house still holds her smells.


Darkness hovers over the rooftops.