Hey, here's another prose poem I just wrote.
travel logos 87she thinks that now, if ever, would be the perfect time to carve her initials into her hair and walk down the avenue in a lime green dress, touting her new success at initiative and disdain. but she moves onward, past the hair salon, and into the old alley where grime collects in puddles of reflectance. she is beautiful, but not in any way you could tell, and she is young, but again, this is a secret. for her the last resort is to go straight to a coffee shop, down three cups of espresso, and extend the last forty hours of her waking. just once, to reach that level of misunderstood living, that is what she wants. the taxi cab, the old bum besting birds for bread crumbs, the nun in her books and emptiness, the woman, the man in his old beat jeans, the girls on the corner, watching strangers bounce from cutlery shops, and the jazz man trumping his best solo with a silent rest and lean. the girl is the girl that can become a woman of love, she is exactly that kind, but she has to know it first.