Eagerly, the laughter comes like bubbles through the
curls at her shoulders.
Lively skips on the footpath,
interspersed with questions, always questions.
Probing, ponderous, preposterous
“Seriously nonna, where did the first grandmother come from?”
Evolution, it’s a big question when you are four.
About the Creator
Michèle Nardelli
I write...I suppose, because I always have. Once a journalist, then a PR writer, for the first time I am dabbling in the creative. Now at semi-retirement I am still deciding what might be next.
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More stories from Michèle Nardelli and writers in Poets and other communities.
Spectating
I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.
By S. A. Crawford4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Great poem!!!! 🌏🌍