An Alchemy of Words

Sundays

"Sundays"

Lady in a blue dress

and a beaten face

standing, cold, on the corner

of Close and King.

Lost in plastic sandals,

she shuffles, turning the corner,

almost dancing in the swish of her

patch-work, denim dress,

showing leg and bending at the waist

to talk to two men

through the window

of a car

then turning back

as the tires

leave grey shadows on the tar.

She passes by me as I wait,

struggling for the ring of a pay telephone

"You call them," she says,

"They can't call you."

"Not a good night," I offer

and, with a grin turned sour

in the stale light,

she laughs.

"Yeah... Sundays."

Her plastic sandals

scrape against the black grass

and she enters a car

that leaves the corner tiredly,

belching gas.