Three Stories Invented in the Paris Fog

 

Three women sitting on a bench

            One pair of red lips

            One set of red painted fingers

            One bun of dyed red hair

 

Three women talking in low voices

            One wants a full-term pregnancy

            One wants a fulfilling income bracket

            One wants a legal way out

 

Three women living in Paris

            One came with structure

            One came with time

            One came with space

 

Three women all in trench coats

            One break up story

            One useless piece of advice

            One laugh of misunderstood commonality

 

Three women away from home

            One left a buried baby

           One left a sundered family

            One left an empty closet

 

Three women sitting on a bench

            One holding on

            One coming together

            One leaving soon

I’m going to be posting a series, I’m calling Why My Love, of pieces I love though I’m not sure why (read veiled self-critique [although if you can’t be Seattle in your personal critique might as well move back to NY.])  Feel free to post some love or thoughts.  Here’s one to start us off.

 

A Dogged man

On A Hill

Over looking a bay

There is a moving sidewalk

Built to transport tired people from bottom to top

 

On the sidewalk there is a man

With the man there is a dog

A poof of a dog

A little, manicured lion’s mane dog

The man is a warm, peach striped button-up

Tucked into well-fitting, skinny, grey jeans

The man walks the dog

Down the sidewalk

As the sidewalk roles them back up

The man looks

Not where he is going

He looks out over the water

To the distant white peaked mountains

And dreams of home