The falling star casts light on the pond

as beside it lays a pondering woman.

It’s an awkward in-between time for sunglasses –

a headache for a sense of anonymity.

She rests on the cement border of twin fountains,

spitting images of Spit and Spat play beside her.

Tourists gather for poorly backlit family photos

and a westward glance confirms her unconventional immortality.

The lady with the tight floral pants scowls-

the girl wonders if it’s her background positioning

or the thorns of the rose pants chaffing.

The husband (boyfriend? lover?) looks right, grins.

Silly girl on the side of the fountain.

A glance back upward. There’s a low-flying helicopter –

breaking news breaking somewhere perhaps.

Here, only a goodbye glance – They came, they saw,

they wander though do not ponder.

She rolls on her stomach, it hurts her ribs.

A place built for beauty but not built to stay.

A downward gaze finds someone looking skyward.

A reflection of someone reflecting on the now,

if you can imagine that.


4 thoughts on “Direction

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