On my usual walk to class
there is this woman walking in front of me,
sun warping the bedazzled cross on her shirt.
All rail legs and cheekbones, she could be a model.
She is yapping on her phone to some guy
named Henry, presumably her significant other.
Poor, sweet Henry, forever waiting on the other
end for his chance to speak. I am just about to pass
this woman when a chunk of her hair hits the ground
in front of me. I think the mass looks like a tangled octopus.
I watch her massage her scalp where the octopus once was,
completely silent, and I will Henry to use this as his chance
to speak. She considers picking it up off the ground
but immediately thinks better of it and keeps walking.
I wonder to myself if this is a statement about women
and how we go through some ridiculous shit to look pretty
but never want to admit to the world just how ridiculous it is,
or if this woman had dropped herself somewhere along the way
and was too embarrassed to get up. I was about to ask
her when she picked up where she left off, with
“Henry, are you even listening?”
-- Daryl Sznyter
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