"We all have Sundays." she said. The blood red sunset collapsed around her, Surrounding her form like water, Soft and gentle and warm. In that glimpse, a sense of magic Pervaded and stopped time. She brushed her hair as one might Stir molasses, slow and easy, Turning it within the bristles To something as cotton as a May day sky. "We're all so lonely." Her eyes glazed over, "Yet in that loneliness we are not." A wry smile glanced upon her lips, The corners puckering, her tongue playing Lightly beneath one. Her heavy eyes Looked up at me and she stretched her hands, The ladle still wrapped in her clutch. "This isn't saccharine."
This poem is Copyright (c) 1994 Kerry Brodt. All rights reserved.
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