The ghostly presence
of restive breeze rushed passed
like students scrambling
for shitbox space in
a lecture room, under this tree
Their legs are still tall and
beautiful; fair, fair and dark.
Lipsticks brushed on our
and full breasts boofered
and we bloated.
Then a car sped across the shade,
a wind hurried away the breeze
and some dry, crispy, leafen drops.
After several years
they found our way
to the same shade.
Written by: Torty Abasi Tortivie
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.