Cold Feet
Brazen, she walks shamelessly barefoot and in rags.
Her hair in dread locks,
Wriggles around the bunch of sadness and ugliness.
Ugliness is what others see.
And filth.
All that filth that covers the years of misery and hardship.
Who cares?
Dirt is all they see.
No wrinkle carries anything visible except the extract of grime.
Wails of sirens and toxins surround her.
The city of despair,
Bare, ignorant, pushy, fast.
No one sees her.
But many look at her with contempt.
She walks.
All her cardboards break the dullness of city noises,
With their simple swishing.
Nothing else.
Reminder to the books she had read when she was a child.
With her father.
Long gone.
Joyless wasting of nerves and memory.
Peace of mind is all one needs.
She walks, she drags her bare feet.
They are cold.
Ana Vidosavljevic
Ana Vidosavljevic from Serbia currently living in Indonesia. She is a teacher, international relations specialist, writer, translator, interpreter, journalist, surfer and mother. Her collection of short stories Mermaids will be published by Adelaide Books in September 2019, and a memoir Flower Thieves will be published by the same publishing house in April 2020.
Tags:
Poetry