Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Edges



Hard times followed her like
a cape. It was nothing
in her look. It was nothing
in her words. It was something
in her walk

She had this stagger –
tripping over air as if
a stick swung from the chest
carves the breeze;
stabbing heart and
legs of scissors

I saw her walking into the store
from the parking lot, crossing
the white diagonals with her green
high heels, cutting botched emeralds
in the lines beneath

Her legs seemed to disagree
As she wobbled across,
and the greeter – having a smoke
down at the corner – had
a nonplus smile and turned back,
urgently, to the shadows

No comments:

Post a Comment