Tien Taylor

a pond was just pond

until it became a pink sky

hugging tiny dandelions.

and then it became

a woman, whose curls

didn’t go undone when a duck

swam too close.

she looked at me.

her lips opened to scold me,

but pine needles

and bread crumbs

came vomiting out.

she need not say anything.

for i could tell she didn’t

appreciate how the mold

covered most of the bread.

she handed me

the soggy pieces one by one,

and told me to move along.

i looked back to find

no sky or woman

just a pond.

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