by Brett Rutherford
As if she knew it,
lost it and found
it again after
oh how many wars,
so many
obituaries read,
she, a bent old
squint-faced in
recognition
pink-coat woman
leaned dangerously,
picked up
with hand nearly as brittle,
the first brown leaf.
"Got you!"
she seemed to say.
She tucked it away
into her wrinkled
Macy's bag, then
giving the slant sun
a tsk-tsk, she
vanished before
I could blink to be sure
I had really seen her,
bag lady, hag
of the fountain,
nixie
of Lincoln Center's
high notes, horn-calls
and pas de deux.
Poems, work in progress, short reviews and random thoughts from an eccentric neoRomantic.
Sunday, July 14, 2024
At Lincoln Center
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