Barefoot
fleeing the City of Angels
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She drives barefoot. Alone along the 101 she zooms. Hightailing it toward someone else's son.
Her red carpets? Blisters and burns blanketing more than shoulders and arms.
All those taciturn LA smiles dropped to dust, worse than nothing, having once been promises, and now, how they've exposed themselves, hollow beings, vessels unwilling to hold out hope.
She feels the weight of waiting. Akin, she's become, to pennies in a jar beside the cashier's till, waiting on disaster to be worthy of change.
Some things can't be fixed with aloe, no matter the pressure, it's still the rub.
She's going anywhere else, anywhere the sun's not in her eyes and the dirt's not sand, hard packed from being walked all over.
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Copyright © 05/03/2024 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.
About the Creator
Christy Munson
My words expose what I find real and worth exploring.
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