There’s an 80-something woman I know, dyes her hair magenta, wears Chanel No. 5 and purple blouses
My banker is a young, Black man with perfect teeth, and the soul of a poet. He performs at open mic nights
I’ve heard of a child who isn’t. Born on the wrong side of an imaginary line, she huddles with others in a cage
The woman next to me in the grocery store marks her territory with an angry stance and sad, old eyes
Death claims a friend, robbing all who loved her of her sweet spirit. She comes around in my dreams
Me? I’m a watcher, hoisting a glass to those who’ve touched my life, for better and sometimes for worse
Who are you? Add a verse.
Found the photo of the sculpture on Pinterest.