Sonnet 6

She on the stepper tocks along imaginary hopskotch and breathes

perspires while looking across at the the rust tone of the mountains 

of the city in boldly embodied light few people springboarding

along the streets stripped of quiet still maybe finding notions of peace

she wrings her mind from the physicality of moving forward 

watches her watch and acquires motion like dream of drip moist

endeavor she would fly if she were a flute toned bird throating 

from the tops of trees that parse themselves while seen from 

the firm screen a possessive adjective shucked from the surroundings

the circumstance of an advantaged life where all you have to do

is work your socks away from the skin and learn what not to say

to those imposing an autumnal hue on the strings of words

that tap the ground like a jumprope in quick succession finding

lines of code turned odes to the populace who may even be listening