*Magnify*
SPONSORED LINKS
Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/960531
by Fyn
Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Community · #960531
Ever the optomist, she was...
Still something

She is, perhaps, seventy-five.
Steel hair hangs lank
falling past the grate of the fire escape
as she brushes and wishes
for something of a breeze.
Her once plaid house dress
faded and worn from countless pressings
hangs on a shapeless body.
Too long alone, too old to change,
she dreams of the house
with the white picket fence in the country
as she watches a gang member flash his sign.
She remembers back
to when this address meant
gentle, refined elegance.
She remembers back
to the park down the block
full of flowers and nannies on a spring morning;
before the park became
the war ground of gangs and thieves,
before the stores moved away and
the jobs disappeared,
before the neighborhood became the dirt
under a street kid's fingernails.

Her eyes light
on her geraniums
blooming in a colorful riot
and she smiles,
still.
© Copyright 2005 Fyn (fyndorian at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Log in to Leave Feedback
Username:
Password:
Not a Member?
Signup right now, for free!
All accounts include:
*Bullet* FREE Email @Writing.Com!
*Bullet* FREE Portfolio Services!
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/960531