her left foot, how it bent
inward.
clubbed
one might say.
how she limped
in her pearls.
her hips
in an awkward sway
as we went
to a show.
she could out walk me.
miles
from the garage lot
she could go
without sweat or worry,
never needing
to stop
and rest.
she'd look back at me
and laugh,
come on, she'd say.
you're always last.
you'll miss the opening
act.
No comments:
Post a Comment