Passerby

Passerby

In
The
Late
Afternoon,
She
Walks
Past
My
Gate
And
Into
The
Falling
Sun.
My
Chores
Are
Done,
But
She
Is
Going
To
Work,
Where
She
Is
A
Server
Or
A
Clerk.
It
Seems
A
Pity
That
To
Earn
Her
Pay,
She
Labors 
Into
The
Night,
Missing
Twilight
And
The
Peace
Of
Rest
Hard
Won,
When
The
Day
Is
Gone.