Always late, every day I pass her by
She holds crayons in crooked hands
Scribbling pictures of unicorns
Selling them when she can.
Posting them on chosen polls
Artwork is her raison d'etre
Each finished gem is proudly displayed
Certain they'll be discovered today.
I wave when I drive past
But have never yet to stop
The light changes too damn fast
And life's too busy anyway.
She always feels so distant
In the solitude of a broken mind
I want to buy her artwork
And share a moment in time.
When next I pass by
I swear to stop for a bit
To engage her with a smile
Certainly we'll speak tomorrow.
In my usual rush, this will be the day
Late for work, who cares, not me
She's warmed my heart so often
I can't wait to finally meet.
Her corner is coming up
My excitement is on the rise
Something's wrong she's not there
I haven't seen her since.
Sweet Mary, I failed us.
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