the little wind 

 Sun 9.13.20

THE LITTLE WIND

Winter is coming to the Northeast,

a grey, overcast day.

I sit at the Silver Street Tavern,

at a table near the window. 

Gulls are hovering overhead

looking for choice morsels of city trash. 

Before me in the central thoroughfare,

on the corner of Main and Silver,

a stout, middle aged woman hovers,

uncertain of her direction. 

She stands at the crosswalk

wearing a salmon colored raincoat

with umbrella tucked safely underarm.

The crowd moves along

but she stays put.

A youth walks by in a Grateful Dead jacket

and spiked hair; busy city girls with thigh high skirts

exposing goosy red legs pass her by.

And across the street, a young woman,

wearing jeans, boots and a wind breaker,

hurrying off

towards the lee of tall buildings. 

Dress warmly girl,

the city won't shield you

from winter winds.

The dowdy old woman

with umbrella is at center

of the four directions,

buffeted by western winds.

She is a Sibyl

standing on a street corner

unfolding the four-petaled flower

of knowledge. 

She points north where the Grateful

Dead marches off to his fate;

east, where the young woman makes her way,

while strong legged city girls head west. 

But what of the fourth direction,

the little wind before me? 

She calls my attention

to the people scurrying by

and I notice that everyone

has become an animal;

they are comical but correct.

I see gibbons, giraffes

and big prowling tigers. 

And then she walks by,

deep in thought

she does not see me;

a hawk's face and a body so fragile

and vulnerable.  The core of her soul

is exposed to me,

and it is mine.

It is the fourth direction.

The old Sibyl with umbrella

still tucked underarm

heads West

lewdly pursuing

the bare legged city girls.

The favorite essay this month has again been,The Karpman Drama Triangle

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