She stood there, the rain lashing her hair into wet paint

and shouted through the downpour at him

“don’t you wonder why all these people aren’t screaming

around us, falling apart with the weight of grief of this world?

All he could see in that moment, all he could absorb

aside the onslaught of soaking water

was how terribly alive she seemed then

face reddened with rage and tears

lips bright, eyes searching, one thin ankle turned inward

like a window quarter opened

how this would be the moment he would always conjur

when thinking of her

even years from now when they had parted ways and

she had forgotten the impulse and twitch of being young

and settled into a life of eight hour work days and children

pawing at the hem of her sensible skirt

or maybe she never would

maybe she would stay on this corner

angular youthful hips jutting out of her Winter clothes

like question marks

her unblemished skin and unbroken heart still

redolent with hope and rage and ire

and always be for him

a flower blooming from her throat

that reminder

to never ever

grow too comfortable.

5 Replies to “Foible”

  1. And if that memory should fade in him in years to come, perhaps he will stumble upon a book or a blog of poetry (such as this) and see her name and remember and know that she is still shouting in the rain.

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