There is the girl, woman
this 3:02p.m., midway
on twinkling crosswalk
between sycamores. Her voice
thumps her hip, tucked
in a dropped-bottom bag working
on its 5th black clippable shoulder
strap. Walk-lope, now: she doesn’t like
you. If you must be sure, stop
her, but shade your eyes, do! Be-
come slouchable box—the sort tulle-y
dresses are delivered in, containers
bound beyond puncture, no stuffs
escaping, nor returned. Can you
stop her? Oh. Well. Her nested note-
book is coffee-washed to wan.
Doubtful she could translate mild
complaint. Heel-to-curb she goes.
Worn heel. Same curb.