bobbi sinha-morey

Graffiti On The Sidewalk

Memories of rain
stay with me long
after the graffiti has
dried on the fence
and faces of sidewalks.
My thoughts are
rekindled by a word
while I am inside the
coffee shop with my
scone gazing out at
the fence, and the
block comes alive
with skateboards and
bicyclists. Every now
and then one of them
stops with chalk or a
paintbrush. More art
and lingo are added.
A kid who is halfway
to being a hippy posts
himself outside the
coffee shop to begin
a mural, and no one
chases him away.
Like an artist he makes
the first strokes in red
while he sits there
patiently on his stool.

The Nimble Hand

Words in invisible ink
appear when the paper
is held to the fire, but
the handwriting is so
tiny I wonder if the
sender likes me. I hold
a magnifying glass up
to the letter, exposing
the wavy lines, the
loops of calligraphy.
Analysis finds such
crooked lines and
inside every indeci-
pherable word are
secret thoughts.
I imagine it must
have been written in
haste with the late
shine of a red sun
streaming in. Long,
tapered fingers
must’ve held the pen
and, on the wall, the
shadow of a nimble

Bobbi Sinha-Morey can be reached at her blog.