Low Spirit

Edge along the sides and hope
they pass you by.
You weren’t made for
bright lights and open areas.

The wind howls shrilly
at your presence like a foghorn,
Lending lightness to that dainty step
you’ve been practicing for years.

You slip between the slick cracks
of the wall and crawl over
to the corner, waiting for everyone
to leave, 'till the sounds disappear.

The End

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