A Strange Woman
Too often she waits
too long and the doors close
while she picks at the splitting layers of her fingernails,
flexes her ankle to feel the snap of a ligament
jerk her back into her body
too late. This time
they take notice of her breathing,
the children
watch her shoulders rise
her bones tent the fabric across her chest
the children swallow instinctively against the empathy rising
like bile from an unfamiliar core, the man
too familiar
eyes darting to the wet canvas of her shoes
You coming, or not? She shifts her weight and her left
hip complains with a silent jab, her right knee bends
the doors slide
shut.
– ren powell