Reading Gone with the Wind
Reading Gone with the Wind
Her bobbed hair,
slim legs
lifted, stretched
out on a
park bench –
brown-bagging it.
Chewing whole wheat
bread, reading
“Gone with the Wind”
can’t see her face,
she ignores me.
She hikes her skirt,
purple-flowered silk
above her thigh’s
legs crossed.
A plastic fork fits
into her right hand,
probably homemade
salad of some kind.
Hope she drops it.
Drops it on her
skirt of silk;
perhaps the dressing
is made with oil?
Trying to sleep on a
park bench – I stare
into the mist –
suddenly despise her
That girl…
brown-bagging it,
on my property.