Dear brown-skinned lady,
I believe you said you were from Panama.
Especially through his eyes, I bet,
Which have not strayed from you yet.
Your hands dance in front of your face,
Filling in the gaps of the stories
That words fall short of conveying.
As my feet soar over the
WATCH THE GAP
The strings of your past and future
Trail behind me
And fall in a heap of the present,
Remaining frayed at the edges
And eternally un-tied,
Leaving wonderment and curiosity in their wake.
They fight against the brisk wind,
Reaching out to me as they’re ripped along the tracks.