Passersby
Some are strutting; others drag,
Promenade or amble,
Every one a puzzle
We’re unable to unscramble.
Some look cocky, others sad,
Lost in their reflections,
Heading off, in head and foot,
In varying directions.
Some are spiffy, others drab,
Yet a first impression
Isn’t quite enough to gauge
Contentment or depression.
In the city, passersby
Cross paths but what we see
Will not provide the clues to solve
Each private mystery.
Copyright © Ilene Bauer | Year Posted 2015
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