Blue Angel 4

By Sasha Schoen

I bike to Vons on
the corner of Atlantic
and Broadway.
She’s still there,
the old woman,
the fat, old woman
with her fat, old dog;
its head always between
its legs, licking.
She looks up, licks her lips
and smiles, a silvery chin hair
glistens in the afternoon sun.
She’s propped, like a heaping
scoop of ice cream on a brittle cone,
on her walker in a sliver of shade.
She says, “Hello.” Last week
she told me
she liked my dress.
The week before
she said,
“You’re beautiful.”

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