.
She had a petulant look
as she walked down the street.
The staccato of her walk was
a metallic sound from the steel
of extremely high heels
she had on her pumps.
.
The woman was of dubious history,
her head held high as if to dare
anyone to mention the scar
on her right cheek from
her days of rebellion which sent
her into exile from her family
and friends. The latch on the
door was changed,
the family name now in ruins.
.
Short fuses in temper
are her nature…
ready to blow at any time.
.
Men watch her walk.
Her long hair billows in the wind,
her clothes in ruins.
She walks with her head held high,
a petulant, rebellious stance,
ready to dart into any
doorway if approached
or threatened in any way.
.
The petulant lady
of Shady Lane continues
on her way.
When staccato footsteps
are heard in the night,
latches are secured,
to avoid the ruins,
when the short fused
rebellious lady tries to
dart into homes
to scar the frightened
souls that hide behind
metallic doors.
.
The staccato footsteps,
real or imagined.
A warning of the petulant
nature of wandering souls
in exile.
Latch your doors…
you never know.
.
.
siggiofmaine 