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Exiting the bus, the girl
Stumbles on the dirty concrete,
Losing track of her footing in the dense city.
Approaching the even glass doors
Shoulders and hands shrink
In the baggy field hockey sweatshirt
Hanging upon her slender body.
So modest an image, still the crowd spots her
And as hyenas on a scent they swarm
Cluttering her vision and narrow path.
The crowd appeals,
To the small cross adorning her neck
Yet her worn Nike’s do not hear.
The crowd’s beady eyes turn frantic
Losing sight of the tiny trinket
Her existence, her actions.
Neck wilted, her gaze flitters along the ground
Halting only once at the sight
Of clean, untarnished soles.
Feet falter, imagining the embrace of such comfort.
But then the doors are no longer looming
And her feet must resign
To the path laid out, and nothing more.