Esmerelda sits beside
the ten ton granite boulder
pried from some Pleistocene moraine
embedded now between
the blue-mirrored towers
of the downtown mini plaza.
With nibbling lips unkissed
since the previous July,
she picks ant-sized chips
of black nail polish
off the slender fingers
of her un-ringed left hand,
while her right scrolls down
an endless screen
of food truck exotica
sent by friends unseen
for weeks on end:
Bacon wrapped ‘round anything
promising to restore
the sizzle that has dribbled off
since boyfriend Bill's retreat.
Key lime infused elixirs
whisper drink me and I’ll whisk you
off to sugary beaches where
the breeze is warm and sweet,
as if treats for her belly
could satisfy the cravings
of more Southern regions.
The noon sun slips
behind the peak
of the latest high rise lair
and a shadow spills
across the plaza.
Esmerelda rises
from her stony seat,
drops her lunch bag
in the maw of the trash bin
on the corner. Sparrows quickly
swoop to vanish the crumbs
she's left scattered at her feet.
Tom, who waits
for the signal to change
across the street, admires
the gleam of Esmeralda's
long black hair. He smiles
as they pass by each other
in the crosswalk, but fails
to catch her eye.
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