Hung from her blue wicker chair she gently sways,
Tracing the balcony with her big toe.
She counts the butcher birds with a green-eyed gaze,
Sits wordlessly waiting for her hair to grow.
Soon driveways fill and endless traffic thins.
The faint shadows of neighbors pass to and fro,
As she tries to smooth the dents of her pale shins.
She is still as the sun finally sets,
Watches as stars prick the velvet sky like pins.
In the park, kids choke on their first cigarette,
And a lost, desperate dog strays next door.
But there still she stays, merely a silhouette,
And I still don’t know what she’s looking for.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem