No Heroes Here
Our paths cross every morning.
I am leaving for work. She returns.
At first she wore her hair tightly coiled,
and sported purple overalls. Now she knows better.
I imagine her behind half-closed curtains
studying our clothes, our hair, our habits,
when it’s safe to go out, when to stay in.
I never see her in the neighborhood. She must be smart.
She is my size, only younger; much younger.
I have some clothes I’ll throw away anyway.
I wonder if she’d like them. I hesitate.
What if she asks for help?
On The Roadside
A car stranded at the side of the road, emergency
lights on, vehicles slow down:
Do you need help, man?
Meowing heard from a dumpster,
fire brigade called, media coverage.
Adopted by a Good Samaritan.
A wretched creature, half-naked, standing there.
Night in, night out.
Irena Ioannou writes from Crete, Greece, and her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in the Mortar magazine, The Wild Word, S/tick, Literary Mama, Eyedrum Periodically and Shipwrights.