Saturday, September 29, 2012

first stab at poetry

messenger bag thumping
against her thigh
with every step she takes.

hair up, button-down,
she walks out of her house
and it's such a beautiful day.

sees the men, sees the car,
slows down to let them
back out of their driveway

and keeps walking but
the car behind her,
why isn't it driving away?

the breeze is no longer cool
and her heart beats faster,
thumping, and her hands begin to shake.

the window slides down
and she barely looks up.
sunglasses, brown hair, smirk on his face.

a whistle, the two toned sound
she heard many times before
in movies, but never on such a beautiful day.

face red, she lowers her head
and pretends not to hear.
despite those things she likes to say,

rhetoric about girl power and strength,
she's silent and does nothing but
keeps walking straight.

passenger seat shouts something
and they laugh and zoom past her and they're gone.
her heartbeat, and somewhere along the way

that whistle and that laugh
and that engine
make it rain.

5 comments:

  1. Dear Jenny,

    I'm so jealous of your poetry skills! I can't write anything to save my life (much less poetry). Can't wait to read more! :)

    ReplyDelete

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