Walking
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?
Walking
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
looking
into the sunshine
feeling
the hot sun on my face
hearing
cicadas buzzing
quiet
A soft breeze runs through
my hair
Life
is truly perfect here.
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