Just worn, hot duck tape.
Her legs, arms are stringy
Tan like wood
Her skin is oily leather.
She sits under a tree
Outside the Smithsonian
Bags of plastic, nearly busting, surround her
She wears a cheap out fit; magenta shorts, magenta top
I pass by her and catch her face
Mostly hidden by broad sunglasses;
It is hard, beaten
And I know she is younger than she looks.
She doesn't strike me as odd at first:
just another pedestrian, a jogger or something
But . . .
Then, I look down
Round her sun-panned ankles
And . . . her shoes . . .
Are made of duck tape.
They grab my eyes
And keep them as I sit down at a table
I watch her watch traffic
Should I give her money?
(Those aren't proper shoes; I want to give her my own.)
Would that be an inappropriate gesture?
I wonder this
As she just sits there
In her cheap outfit, cheap visor and glasses
And duck tape shoes.
As she gets up, grabs all her bags
Walks down the streets
In those hot