I sit amidst the bustling crowd
Of children and parents
Under a lazy winter sky
With a book in hand,
Seeing but not looking
At the passing sigmoid shapes-
Brightly clothed, brightly toned
Squeals of joy, few of which
Catch my passing eyes.
I see her in parts, this child,
Her hair, petulant, untamed,
Flying, as though it is a mane,
With enough rebellion against gravity
That matches her scream of joy
As she slides down
Right into the arms of her laughing father.
A small smile peeks over his shoulder,
And my lips tilt in response,
To that one soul who knew I sit here.
I quickly look back down into my book.
I blend in again into a scene
Where I clearly don’t belong,
Except for a smile bestowed
In acknowledgement
Of a timid existence.
I never got to know her name.