by Ivy Miller
The perfectionist watches with a keen eye
as words parade before her
The careless one calls himself carefree
and watches from across the river
She can hear him whistle as his legs swing
but the tune is unfamiliar
They become acquainted a glance at a time
until the parade comes to a halt
She closes her book. His legs still.
They consider the possibilities
But the perfectionist and the careless one
are no more than they are
Each leaves wishing instead,
They could be brave.