3:30 Pm: A Poem

Off-white heat

slow-burning,

stilling

the familiar landscape.

Like an overexposed Polaroid.

As if frozen,

sun-glazed trees

barely rustle in

a non-existent breeze.

White-washed pavement

imperceptibly rumbles

as passing cars

hum by

winking,

exchanging secrets

with the pedestrian.

A trickle

of sweat

caresses her spine,

Frank Sinatra tinnying in

her earphones.

It reminds her

of an

old

wedding dress,

the color of the afternoon.

3:30 Pm, Hephzibah Grace

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