The perfect storm... has winded her step
she doesnt understand why he asked her to meet him this way.
He has a key she thought
and some brownstones are easily opened any way.
Breeze blows
waving the pressed not permed flow of ebony
in the direction of passion
she waits with doey eyes
and perfectly pursed lips
she waits
though she too has just returned to Brooklyn for this life
this meeting
she feels 100 years at home in the warmth of it's filth.
hands sheilded by seven jeaned pockets
cropped, slightly out of style ski jacket
accentuating her tiny, bruised waist.
she is small
but her size lends no hint of the life she has lived and left
ten years since high school
five since low life
three hours since she had exited that boxcar
wounded and empty
No one except the slender object of her seatmates' attention
had recognized her angst.
The woman was in tune with her secret
which is except for her fingernails
she thought was thoroughly concealed
luckily she was one of the earlier stops on the train
or the woman's intuition would have surely unveiled her sorrows
yes, she was headed for Brooklyn,
but Philidelphia helped her escape the reality of her error
and three buses later reach the platform
in which she would pretend she had just descended from
A salty glaze of dispair and shame
slides over her eyes
as she notices a huffed recognizable figure in the distance
she trembles with familiar anxiety
Knowing her welcoming smile is fraudulent
not for lack of happiness,
but for strife of intent...