Fade Past

Not much more than a rag doll

she folds east, her molted

braids sweep slowly

on top of the shoulders of an

oversized T.  on the steps

to the avenue, she leans

and tucks in locking

onto me…expectantly.

I scurry and fade past

her thin eyes

with my head bowed,

to the early morning rush.

By Kimberly Cecchini

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