BROWN BAGGING IT

BROWN BAGGING IT

Her bobbed hair,
slim legs
lifted, stretched
out on a
park bench -
brown bagging it.

Chewing whole wheat
bread, reading
"Gone with the Wind"
can't see her face,
she ignores me.

She hikes her skirt,
purple flowered silk
above her thigh’s
legs crossed.

A plastic fork fits
into her right hand,
probably home made
salad of some kind.

Hope she drops it.
Drops it on her
skirt of silk;
perhaps her dressing
made with oil?

Trying to sleep on a
park bench, I stare
into the mist, and
I suddenly despise her

That girl -
brown bagging it,
on my property.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved @2011

BLIND FISTS CRY OUT

Blind Fists Cry Out

A stranger wraps his arms about
her waist; cold shivers run up and
down her spine -

"They will save him," she whispered,
"Experts do this all the time."

She heard sea gulls squawking,
and legs splashing – faint voices
mumbling.

She screamed, "I want to know!"
She flung her arms above her head
as if they had eyes - she whispered,
"Is he alive?"

She stood to run, tripped, and fell.
Sea shells cut apart her legs -
she grabbed sand - tightly
squeezed her fist’s and cried.

"Are you the mother?"
A stranger’s voice. . .

She reached to feel a face.

"Tell me – what . . . does he look
like - Is he cold? Is he warm
or - is he blue?”

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
from working memoir "Blind Fists Cry Out."