May: 4123 San Damiano

Silent crashing of the lake
On riff raff
Stirred no bird
Nor squirrel.
Ms. Stillcatto paced
And stared out the bay
Window
Studying the lives hiding
In the lakeside park.
Her algae green eyes
Draped by her tired lids
Beamed across the street
To the playful souls
Not observing the self-isolation
That she’s been embracing
For years now.
She angrily twirled the cross
Which norm’ly rested on her breast
Between her fingers.
Lounging about 
On the crisp grass
Were troublesome teens
No older than twenty-four
Or twenty-five.
The sun off their skin 
That seemed to gleam
Blinded Ms. Stillcatto.
Their dancing riled
And exiled her;
Its spastic motion
Reviling.
She watched intently
As the olive man
Built fire and
The others danced.
The soon-roaring fire,
Billowing smoke,
Caught the time
Of every passerby. 
Dozens joined the ritual.
Ms. Stillcatto shifted in her seat.
Her feet beginning to hear the beat
Of the drum from forty yards away.
Her glasses fogged,
And she bubbled and swayed.
The climax of the fire
Reached a fever from the flame.
Bowls were passed to all
Except Ms. Stillcatto who still
Sat on a sill
In her porch across the way.
Thirty-something folks
Tipped their bowls
As the sun fell below
The edge of the Earth
And so did the folks
Fall to the ground.
Ms. Stillcatto froze:
Couldn’t blink
And couldn’t breathe.
She merely looked down 
At her tea and sighed, 
Throwing back the last few sips 
Without letting an ounce touch her tongue

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