She was tired and lonely, perhaps—on’ry of course. It of course being summer and the
coarse air and heavy breathing coincided with coarser catcalls, scenes, more pressing
immediate bullshit—the when and where, the how—the
why
she made her way along cracked bricks slathered in heavy air, proud and not turning
back, not wavering, never—ever—saying “not never,” never ever asking, only telling us
the way it is and the way it will be
forever
the only sound the stuffle of Crocs on bricks and the crinkle of plastic in sweaty palms
— her sweaty palms & —
The way it is and the way it should be.