On two feet and ten toes she propels herself forward
balancing on the ground, counterbalanced on the Earth;
two eyes, two ears in Divine Proportion
to one heart brewing elixir of mourning and mirth.

The downtown matrons and the uptown maids
in ever their most appurtenant tackle
avert their chagrin to be caught with their countenance
showing; exposed with alleycat hackles.

With two hands and ten fingers she swings her arms
with elegant composure, to gain impulsion.
One nose and one mouth for a Golden Mean,
in the middle of her head, God's compulsion.

The uptown patriarchs and the downtown boys
in their ever most assimilated gear
dart their gaze back and toward, caught between
haughty assessment and private, disquieting fear.

With two lungs she breathes in the vaporous essence
from each of them as they stare like boorish children in the hedge;
Her flame burns hotter and brighter with every utterance,
her back grows stronger with each shove toward the ending's edge.

The sidewalk ends at the cobblestone road,
but her two legs continue forward without pause or slip;
she has been here before, she has been farther toward sundown
than what has been passed between fleering and lip.

She will keep on walking with or without them,
and with or without this loosened rhyme.
Her gait keeps its own clock,
her clock keeps its own meter,
her arrival will be right on time.

~M. Black