The gate is corroded
Angry, bitter
Catching her sky-blue miniskirt
Snagging, nagging
Threatening her modesty
Scared she might not need either
The gate is narrow
Sharp, lonely
Unwilling to let pass her abundance
Scratching with rusting pointy fingers
Poking holes in her confidence
The gate is squeaky
Grating, piercing
Loud on quiet Thursday nights
When she tries to climb past it
And free-fall on the pavement
They found her next morning
Pale, impaled.
Gate unhinged
From its centuries-old fixture
Her skirt in place
But red.
