Posted in Prose, Strangers


She found comfort in the folds of the Metro paper.
She heard symphonies when the subway would screech.
The type of girl that remained steadfast in the assertion
That dandelions were flowers
And weeds were just seen as disobedient
To everyone else but her.

She saw only a fleeting series of minute wholeness,
never the broader scope.
The infinity of space made her nervous
She never liked things she couldn’t fathom,
some things are just better left unfathomed.

If ignorance was bliss
She was poetic in her unknowing.
Her favorite gift was the definition of an unknown word,
Favorite food was chicken pot pie,
because Mom used to tell her it was
Like eating a mini model of
Planet Earth.

(A mea culpa to the beautiful woman on the N train whose photo I snapped this morning. You reminded me of a modern-day Carrie Bradshaw and I wrote this poem about you. If you ever come across this, please don’t be freaked out.)


Stories of travels, of tribulations, and of learning to tell the difference.

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