Her own smoke…

Squat and tucked against the brick wall,

solitary, patiently smoking,

she’s waiting for a bus, a ride, to go somewhere;

maybe she has to work

because she’s not hurried; no one to run to,

to hug, miss or be missed,

and she’s just looking off at nothing, anything.

 

The air is moving sideways

and across everything, moist and cool

but not at all fresh;

it’s a summer’s afternoon that feels autumnal –

the season’s give and take –

warming and chilling in a contrarian play

but not encouraging.

 

She looks sad and poor, not just because;

it’s the way she appears

as if there’s no contrast between inside and out –

the confidence game

all play to conceal misery or put on a good face,

but hers was plainly sad

and it showed no hope of enlightenment.

 

The air and her life

explain why she squats against the old wall,

drizzle explains her tuck

shunning the ache others shrug to evade;

she hides in plain sight

turning her head into the wind as she exhales,

evading her own smoke.