It glides like a ghost,
The procession of carriages come speeding down.
The man is too close to her,
The woman casting her a dirty look.
One, two, three, four,
There are soldiers at the door.
Five, six, seven, eight,
They open the gate.
Nine, ten, eleven, twelve,
They have come to where she dwells.
Taking hits on the sidewalk,
Joined by her invisible crew.
The alternative is better,
These smoky skies.
The green grass beneath her feet,
Making things meet.
It gradually pulls in,
The man moves away,
The woman upturns her nose.
In scorn they pass her by,
The concrete cold with isolation.
Soon, she will get it right,
Soon, she will fight.
But right now, she feels the bags in her shirt,
Oh how they crunch.
YOU ARE READING
Pens in the Sea
PoetryIt falls steadily, piercing the water in a way the hole will never close.
