135th & Crossing Her hands are like closed horseshoes. They swing over her clocking hips, as if that is
what makes her go. She does not slow for conversation. At the corner she brushes against
roses being sold. She throws a smile over her shoulder, like table
salt-- or something not of luck at all. The roses fall onto the
street. No symbolism.
No metaphor. Just red flowers in the gutter. And a man
stooping down collecting his life. Originally published in Spout |
