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This night on tailored Main Street
the sun sets. Black
iron lamps light yellow
one by one. Their dull hum haunts
open windows where curtains doze
between breeze. Across
from the Algonquin the small laugh
of a girl. She breaks
from her mother, runs
the beckoning sidewalk
into night’s quick falling.
Her hair a tangle of mane and briar,
her dress flowers breathe
open close open
Mother blinks, calls
wait to the flash left
twirling in the air,
the shiny new baton.




Leigh Anne Hornfeldt lives in Kentucky with her husband and three young sons. Her poems have appeared in Plain Spoke, Untitled County Review,  Chronogram, and Soundzine
 


Late summer drives on Main Street are a favorite for my husband and me. With the windows down waiting at traffic lights private conversations, images, and scents are easily caught. This particular evening, between the pull of a young girl ready to take flight from her mother and the dwindling light of a small town closing itself up, I saw a lovely tension I had to capture.





 





  


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