she draws back the elastic
while holding steady
the blue-black tartan blanket
on her bare rower’s legs –
deposits the book –
a garish paperback
that could be science fiction
shifts her body to forty-five degrees
knees against the garbage bags
head against the window
and sleeps.
*********************************************
small enough to nestle
all her body on both seats
lissome enough to curl into a ball
and sleep comfortably
or, at least, with a veneer
of that elusive property -
the checkered pants she wears
show nearly a third of her legs
still smooth as her breathing rate
but scarred unusually
as if by machine or her own hand -
her blue headscarf placed
over her eyes, tied
at the back of her short red hair
glasses taken off and stored
with the brown leather sandals
underneath her bed -
knitted sweater used as a pillow
other belongings scattered by her hips
where the skin is ribbed
with elastic waistband marks
transitions starkly from Okanagen tan
to a fairer hure more fitting
of a pureblood French Canadian -
and then she seems at peace
until we stop for washrooms
or to eat - while I think
how superior is hers to mine, sullied
with trail mix crumbs and crumbs
of feelings I can't lie with.
No comments:
Post a Comment