On The Stoop
by Tim 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.