There is the girl, woman
this 3:02p.m., midway
on twinkling crosswalk.
Her voice thumps her hip,
tucked in a dropped-
bottom bag working
on its 5th shoulder
strap. Walk-lope:
she doesn’t like
you, though it is doubtful
she could translate mild
complaint. Heel-to-curb,
she continues. Sorry: worn
heel. Same curb.

About PB Rippey

Writer, wife, mother, grateful. Fiction, memoir, poetry, kidlit (MG), member SCBWI. pbwrites.wordpress.com
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Words do not escape you

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