Saturday, April 17, 2010


The street buckles under her feet. Her purse
swings like the sun on fast-forward. The glitter

of dimes in the gutter, on her knees.The German
shepherd charging, restrained. Apologies whispered,

shouted. Restrained twice. Hot breath builds
its own atmosphere on her cheek. A high tin

sound like an angry cook at the sink: clatter,
clatter. Her hands at the sides of her head,

in her butter-colored hair. The sky before her
a jerky, old-timey film, eyelids fluttering up.

1 comment:

Avo said...

Unless I'm grossly misunderstanding it, this sounds like a paradox: a stylish PSA.
Using no excess words it calls up the images of events that unfold rather than telling you. Neatly done.