A woman of thirty
A woman of thirty,
maybe mid-thirties,
chubby, pale, brown-haired
(as if she were my own
never-begotten sister
behind me by twenty years),
got on the bus in Arlington
on the coldest day in March
wearing crocs out of which
her heels, without socks,
spoke, in red language,
of tiredness and pain.
A wayward fringe of hair,
lately pestered by icy wind,
teased her right eyebrow.
Why didn’t she wear a hat?
She eased herself, slowly,
weighed down with care
and a cumbrous winter coat,
into a seat toward the back.
It was palpable, her relief.
Poetry by Uncle Meridian

Read 77 times
Written on 2022-04-30 at 09:13




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