A hot summer day


on a hot summer day

a day like any other one

On the way I encounter

old women and men

sheltered from the sun


Some women wear black

nothing but black

for the rest of their lives

They’re grieving widows, you see


As a child, a silly thought

occurred to me:

Do they wear black underwear, too?

Do aprons count?



down to the bakery

The whole street smells

of freshly baked bread

Instant happiness


A quick transaction later

I stand outside

with a warm loaf of bread

in a paper bag



into the sunshine


the hot sun on my face


cicadas buzzing



A soft breeze runs through

my hair


is truly perfect here.

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