Friday, April 27, 2012

Audrey Allen


Emblazed petals. She grew from the cement, charcoal gray. She watched them all walk over her each day. Her blossoms and drips of dew, slightly fragrant, yet no one ever bent over to smell her.

She had one sallow green leaf attached to her narrow stem – pale lemon yellow in the moonlight.

Living curbside next to a bar, bending her tiny petals back and forth in the gentle wind. She drank drops of whiskey, smoked discarded cigarettes in the whirl of midnight traffic.

She always waited for the big black tar tires to drive over her, crushing her tiny plant skeleton. With enough time, she knows it will happen. She has no chance.

Still she grows, clinging onto the cement, a few specks of dirt.

The familiar feel of the street, people chattering on the sidewalk around her. She can see up the women’s skirts, the slick black slack leg of the men. Sometimes the bar door swings open just long enough and she can look inside at the dark velvet, mahogany booths. Beautiful, drunk women snapping their teeth over ice cubes socked in gin… men on their arms as they click by on teetering high heels.

And then....

A heavy blonde, calves bulging in silver stilettos, stepped on her tiny flower head, crushing her.

A single drop of warm dew, petal-shaped, left on the sidewalk.

No comments:

Post a Comment