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Bus Stop MAG
April 20, 2015
a swaying form like thin bark;
she was trembling under swirling storms.
I feel her shivers tucked beneath the bleach blonde parasol she calls a skinny home –
so rough and brittle it might run away
in mighty handfuls.
pulling on her dusty scales,
she was basked in the smoke from the cigarette wand she breathes like a whisper to the damp iron bar rats,
watching the rolled, tiny dreamers hit the cement and duck down the street drains.
it’s so late, girl, to walk this city, a passerby scolds.
so street girl kissed the wizardry that once
sparkled on her charred nail-beds
and wished it back to life.
© Sarah M., Phoenix, AZ
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