A Moment Damaged on South toward Jim's

The neon store signs splash into the rain,

echoing across the inhabitants of South Street

on a winter's Tuesday evening.

She cries melting melancholy past the TLA head down in a rush,

all frayed corduroy and thoughtless shoes trailing blonde highlights.

Then time stops abruptly on the corner of 4th.

She looks up, catches your eyes catching hers and smiles damaged.

Somehow broken in places she's forgotten but you call home.

An instant and she moves on.

Smiling sadly, you brush past her into Jim's,

fried onions and whiz with a coke numbs the sting

and fills the belly.

You felt the hibernation melt in that moment and harden again.

Unseen, she fades into the denizens moving east on South,

sweet damage in tow.