sitting at the vandal-proof,
steel-mesh, plastic-swathed
picnic table in Besse Park
on this bright June morning,
I see the young woman
walking her hairy dachshund,
carrying her de rigeur plastic bag,
in case the dog poops;
she is tall, slender,
and has a nice rack;
but something about
the way she carries herself
bespeaks the wear
of time and misfortune,
tragedy and loss,
things that are again
all around us;
without the weight
of all that baggage,
I'll bet she would still be
a real looker;
without all this,
we would all look better.

June 1, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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