She walks as what she is:
a young librarian on her day off.
Down the avenue lightly,
glasses because she needs them,
books because she reads them.
There is no artifice in her world.
She passes two street singers
hollering greetings with smirks and dirty eyes,
she croaks a ‘hello’ and an embarrassed smile-
she hasn’t yet spoken today.
And there is a secret in the stack she carries,
at the bottom of her Starbucks cup,
rustling the trees and her skirt and her heart,
painting today a perfect picture of the whole,
a quiet characteristic that need never be spoke,
a hole that at last has been filled.