Sunday, April 22, 2018
Daily Prose Poem
Opposite of the girl with the bright umbrella, handle poised across its handle like the stem of a flower she swirls between drops of rain, their substance more like dew or a delicate drizzle. Her waiflike figure spins in and out of traffic, bright bobby socks light as air between her steps. She looks like no one else on the street, tender heart of a child, fingers stained of paint. I imagine she lives in a secret world only she can create, her unlocked windows absent of danger, her morning tea never bitter.