My poem
This poem shuffles out
onto the train
self-conscious,
looking both ways.
Its sunburn scalding
the starched pink dress
scratching the swollen skin-
tender pink and sore.
It makes me swoon,
and softly fall
to the filthy floor
below
crumpled by the faint
I melt: a pillow of pink
my eyes close
the door opens.
the crowd steps over me
eager to get on their way…
the car empties
leaving a pink burnt plop:
the fourteen year old
victim of the sun
on NYC subway’s floor
is left to ride alone.
a memory from 1955
Jeanne in the mountains
3/4/2021
The Vibrant Channeled Creator 