Sonblock, by Richard Hartwell
Monday, June 04 2012 @ 12:00 AM MST
Views: 439
Views: 439
A new poem about crossings and assumptions, from one of our most regular contributors. Poetry Editor
Sonblock, by Richard Hartwell
Stopped at the light, I see her
crossing the street at the
far side of the intersection;
manly in appearance,
although that is of so
little consequence.
Short hair, long pants,
tan blouse, sensible shoes,
she is just nondescript.
She is focused on the light
ahead of her, across the street;
a blinking yellow pedestrian,
her shuffle seems anxious
to be across to the relative
sanctuary of the corner.
She shields herself from harm,
or perhaps just the glare of
morning sun, holding a
large black book in her
right hand next to her
short brown hair,
and slightly above.
I humor myself that it is
a Bible and that she
holds the Good Book
aloft invoking safe passage.
Lights turn to Green.
Someone honks
not me,
and her short shuffle
becomes an elongated
dogtrot to the curb.
She ascends.
At the light we are all
ready for the day.
Sonblock, by Richard Hartwell
Stopped at the light, I see her
crossing the street at the
far side of the intersection;
manly in appearance,
although that is of so
little consequence.
Short hair, long pants,
tan blouse, sensible shoes,
she is just nondescript.
She is focused on the light
ahead of her, across the street;
a blinking yellow pedestrian,
her shuffle seems anxious
to be across to the relative
sanctuary of the corner.
She shields herself from harm,
or perhaps just the glare of
morning sun, holding a
large black book in her
right hand next to her
short brown hair,
and slightly above.
I humor myself that it is
a Bible and that she
holds the Good Book
aloft invoking safe passage.
Lights turn to Green.
Someone honks
not me,
and her short shuffle
becomes an elongated
dogtrot to the curb.
She ascends.
At the light we are all
ready for the day.