On the worst days

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.

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