She’s got a bottle of rainwater.
That’s a red coat on her shoulders,
that’s a pen gripped in her hand.
She’s stalking the sodden streets,
a colourbomb,
reflecting on puddles
and beads in hair.
So who said there’s no paradise?
Maybe paradise only lasts for a second;
her halfway between the gutter and the stars,
her dead pen slick with teeth marks
and cold, biting rain,
and she cares enough to look into your eyes
before her
soaked slipper
hits the
cracked curb.
Filed under: poetry
I love the character, the nerve, the “paradise” that perhaps can’t be isolated and appreciated; i like to call it the “thrill of the hunt.” Good, inspiring work.