On The Stoop

by Tim G. Young

The leaves were meaningless because they were no longer connected to the

trees.  The sun played tag with the plastic bags on the street and in the gutter
which were for particular

moments hustled by the wind.  Sitting on the stoop she adjusted her skirts to

assure wandering eyes would not travel above her folded knees. She let

her fingers pry the plastic lid from her coffee container so she could view

more closely its contents then she sipped.

To her right, on the avenue, the sirens began a loud, angry rage. She turned her

 head catching a glimpse of crimson fire engine and blue white police vehicles

streaking like lightening.  After a few seconds the quiet returned. She could

feel through the container the coffee had cooled.  A group of school kids made

their boisterous way past her stoop back packs and conversations looming.

Her body decided to stand and stretch. She noticed her black converse

sneakers looking tired and worn. The pink laces she thought shared a secret

life with her. The wind now tugged at her hair.