Angela spends her Sundays swaying
to the spokes keeping time in place.
Surreptitious, she gazes upon the ride,
the one we call our own, with grace,
Angelou grace;
The south, east, and Asian in her
print her shoulders with it,
a slow metastasizing strolling until
mind is mended to ease.
Not any normal ease though, but
her ease, made bold by
the orange tang of calm
before any broken lace storm,
Because she only wears slip-ons.
Spin them any way,
her eyes bloom even
on the worst days,
for the dreams we let others live
are hers.
