Purple Shoelaces

She is

hiding behind black everything—

hair protruding from a black hoodie,

covering all but one eye.

Headphones are pumping sounds

into the darkly shrouded form;

I see the wires that must lead to an iPod

—hidden somewhere.

Staring down, so as not to

greet the oft-dismissing world, she walks

with slow purpose, counting the steps,

within the walls

where she keeps her fear of rejection.

She looks at me, despite herself,

as if she doesn’t want to be seen, but does—

and she can’t hide it

soon enough

that she is happy

to be noticed.

Hers eyes are pools of wounded gray,

deep, and soulful.

And I keep looking—eyes tell stories,

and dreams,

and everyone should have one.

Then I spot them—her black Converse shoes

have purple shoelaces,

and this bespeaks

the truth.

She doesn’t want to be disregarded.

Hiding

is just waiting

until it’s safe

to be seen.

I smile, at them, at her;

and she grins, lifts her chin,

and walks on.

While it occurs to me

we’re all

wearing purple shoelaces.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

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