The Lady Downstairs

The lady downstairs feeds bread to the stray cats
that frequent our building.

She has shredded the slices into smaller pieces
and scattered them in the parking lot.

They lie strewn about like shards
of shattered china.

The lady downstairs is asking me what I'm studying
at school. I tell her, "English."

She asks, "What's that?
Is that a language different than ours?"

I know she is serious and reply, "No, it's the same one."
She rubs her neck and looks at the ground.

Her hair is clinging to her head like wet grass
and I am thinking of dinner.