Libby used to say things like
“I think people are a lot like syllables”.
when I asked her why,
she would give a sugar smile,
her hand a bird arching out
across the boulevard.
– – –
Libby used to perch in the bay window
of her studio apartment
and talk about how
the bookshop manager had a jealous walk
and the hotdog man stood in a sneering manner.
She would comment on the comings and goings
of the girl in the tulip dress
and how that dress would fit anxiously
around her strides.
– – –
Libby used to hold an iced tea in one hand
and a remote in the other.
She would pretend to change the channel
whenever the boy with the arrogant motorcycle
came grumbling down the street,
a steel peacock preening its way
past the florist who grew the haughtiest daisies
past the middle aged woman
who placed a vigilant bundle of lilacs
by the gate to the playground.
She would hold the lilacs awhile
then she would place them down
and stand there
– – –
Libby was a connoisseur of words,
a purveyor of hidden meaning.
Her eyes would play along the street
connecting the dots between dozens of lives,
too distracted by the living.