The lady who smokes by the trash
is waiting, a single cigarette in her palm,
unrushed, she could take it or leave it,
her gaze focused, but not rough.
She won’t rest on the wood slat bench --
private, too, where hummingbirds sip
at the lipstick colored feeder, and
mulberry trees drip over laundry.
Instead she stares down the spine of
open and shut garage doors, her back pressed
against bricks. She faces the rank bins,
where I toss a green bag of dog shit.
I wave hello,
goodbye,
the sun sets,
then she lights up.
published in the LIterary Nest