Walking Home (a spontaneous poem)

At night in my suburb

huge spiderwebs glimmer between the trees.

In the town square

on the green astroturf under the lights

a shoeless, shirtless man is doing yoga.

Dirty feet and a backpack on a bench.

It is 11pm and a warm breeze stirs my hair

And my eyes dart reflexively:

who is nearby, where I would run,

what’s the escape route,

If.

‘What a sad thought to have

on a pleasant summer evening’, I think.

The quiet voice inside me answers:

Women after dark are always ready to run.

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