She draws dragons on her front
walk in the brightest colors she
can find, blues and purples and
greens, with yellowed eyes.
They’re not for good luck. They’re
to keep out the real beasties. Prying
eyes and false smiles, nosey Nellies
bearing gooey apple pies.
She scrawls them fresh on Sundays,
time of silence, day of rest. Afternoon
time works just fine, but right at
sunrise is best.
Their vivid scales are scandals; the
neighbors point and talk. She doesn’t
give a single care. She’s made her own
world. Of chalk.
In November, we poem.