I’ve debated with myself a while about whether to post this poem or not. I don’t write much poetry, because I often feel I don’t understand all the rules of meter, etc. I could never remember the difference between blank verse and free verse when I was in school. I just don’t feel as comfortable working with poetry as I do with prose.
I suppose, though, that writing isn’t about being comfortable. Maybe writing about what makes us uncomfortable really brings out what is important. I’m not sure.
I wrote this poem over two years ago. That woman’s face still haunts me. I wonder about her and others like her. I wonder what her day was like, her yesterday and tomorrow. I wonder if there was something I could have done….


In line at the supermarket
One lane over,
She leans with her elbow on the cart, knuckles on her hip.
She stands there nonchalant,
with a shattered face.

She is old and tiny…
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