Little Things

there was modesty in the nod of her head, the purse of her lips, the click of her heels

a quiet dignity as she moved along the stretch of blotchy-looking glass littered with concert posters and poetry reading invitations – pale and crumpled on empty street corners

across the narrow downtown, a ripple of laughter echoed from the studio of a local artist

a ticket collector leaned quietly on the windowsill, filling the colorless, tattered place with visions of the living room and a mug of freshly-brewed coffee

a young child tripped over the tree root, and spilled the parcels of buns from the basket

inside the dimly-lit café, an essayist thought of crafting (in skimpy lettering) an account of children in threadbare clothes and how they tramp the streets even in cold weathers

the sharp smell of chicken soup and roasted meat puffed out of a snug restaurant and rushed at the farthest nooks of the neighborhood

a smaller path led to a shabby, ragged driveway. in a damp november the little house looked lonely, something that even the wind coudnt take away

the thickening canopy of city trees was a lovely sight. the sidewalk bursts with a vast spectacle of random, interesting things: candy bars, warm nuts, hot cocoa, the smell of newsprint

a little over the edge of row houses, a child stands before an adult. no television, she said

no running on the backyard. no bedtime stories and fuss about the wind in the willows. no dripping on the sink. no freshly-baked cookies and butter sandwiches on late afternoons. no cuddling with dogs and furry creatures.

there was no playing of hide-and-seek around the house. no peeking on windowpanes to the sunlit sky at the break of day

so she hoped,

with all the strength in the sinews of a woman,

to lift these hopeless little things


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