The woman is sitting in the doorway half in the sun.
Her face is hidden. She’s talking to someone out of sight.
Her legs crossed like fat fingers.
Even from here I can see her shins are bruised
and the white high-heels scuffed and dirty.
Though she beckons passers-by they hardly glance at her.
Then she stands up, steps into the humid street.
Her eyes clench against the bright.
Under her black vest her limp, shrunken breasts.
She spots me in the bar across the street and beckons,
insistently beckons me like a long forgotten friend.
No comments:
Post a Comment