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On the Steet



As she shuffled along the sidewalk,
I stared, impolitely, at her hunched over body
shaped like an upside down L.
And wondered at her inaudible mumbling
keeping her trapped in her own
bubble of time.

Time that should have passed
but remained 1941.

She is on her way to the train station
to greet him; her hair, soft and black,
Irish black
twisted into a comforting bun.
Her lips are red and her eyes are blue;
blue like the Caribbean
holding back the tide of sorrow to come.

He is curled up in the belly of the plane
releasing vengeance from his hands,
while she waits at the station straining
her neck in all directions
balancing on tip toe like a wanton ballerina.

He cries as he remembers the sound of her voice,
the shape of her thigh draped over his;
cries as his plane drops from the sky.
Cries as I watch him running alongside
her, begging her to forgive him, apologizing
for dying.

I am sorry, too, about the derelict stockings
choking her ankles, and her mismatched attire.
Sorry about the painful hunch of her back
due to the swollen heart that she has had to carry
and the only thing she has left
to scold him with for leaving her exposed
out on the street
in front of an audience of millions.

Learn more about this author, P Vandegrift.
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