Sunday, or Maybe Monday,

by Ronna Bloom

I walked arm in arm
with myself
the way the old couples were doing,
one humming the other leaning.

The pigeons just missing us.

Slowed right down,
not waiting for any other to join.
No reason or excuse.

Stopped looking like I had a mission,
or knew where I was going. I didn’t.

Took myself in hand, strolled.

I was old enough, alone enough,
safe or unsafe enough, to move slowly.

— from Juniper Volume 2, Issue 1