Wednesday, July 6, 2016


Rounded soft curls,
piled on her crown.
She wrapped them like a promise.
Heels clinked on stairs,
step, step, step.
We always heard her coming.

Nails glossy and strong
rapping them on the table.
As an act of impatience or routine,
we could not tell.
She walked like a mystery,
in that we knew little of her,
except how she moved.

Like the way her wrist flicked the key in the door
and how she threw her purse to her shoulder as
she turned to leave.

We saw her glance to her watch
as she stepped on her bus
and waited for the next day to
to see her leave again.

Riley Welch

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