Counting
down the beeps
On the curb, beneath the flashing
man, a lady stumbles,
steadying herself with an
almost imperceptible cold, bony
grip. Fragile smile, deep
creases gently receding.
Dwarfed by thread-bare haute
couture with mummified fox fur collar.
She shuffles across.
Drivers impatiently tapping
the wheel and counting down the beeps.
Turn back the years, her touch
was warm and strong,
perfectly fitting skin, the
fox fur fresh from the chase.
She glided across.
The rhythmic rise and fall a
welcome distraction from
counting down the beeps.
Matthew Smith
If you have any comments on this poem, Matthew Smith would be
pleased to
hear them.
