The woman crying on the street
pressed her hands together as if to cling
to the early March air,
squared her shoulders and put her leather pumps back on.
I wanted to run after her, shoelaces and tangled hair flailing,
grab her smooth hand and
ask her where she was going
and if I could follow.
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3 comments:
It's kinda like chicken little...with the sky falling and all. Where despite the vastness of that which lies/floats/doesn't really exist above us (etc.) is imminently approaching a deadly distance
there was a boy my age
huddled on the street
and i wanted to know his story...
what if one day, we just asked?
but people don't work that way, with rare exceptions...
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