A violent Violet

The girl with the purple lipstick sauntered up the street from the Metro entrance. Her black jacket was fashionably cut, but not ostentatious. The sleeves finished above the wrist and showed off the cuff of a T-shirt in a matching shade of purple. A violent Violet. That’s how I thought of her. I knew where she was headed, too. I’d be heading there myself shortly. And she would be there, as immaculately dressed and remote as she looked now, those perfectly formed, perfectly painted lips calling me.


Waiting For Change


Out of luck,

but long on time

the beggar sits

and waits for change.

It could be loose,

or thrown away,

he sees it every day.

His daily post

He shares with those

Who also pray for change.

The faithful few

Who donate to

His lonely vigil feel

That their small change

Can rearrange

The world from top to tail.

The beggar looks

This way and that

His world is not their own

And change for them

Means less for him

And longer days