The Mango Colored Cento

The Mango Colored Cento

by B Block Creative Writing 

 

The girls wore their plaid skirts pulled so high; miles of tanned thigh separated their knee high socks.

Cigarette smoke wafts into the misty air,

its stale smell mingles with the musty smoke

emitted from factories.

I am divine days

and confused adolescence.

Are the eyes of millions of others wishing they were her?

Was it a simple act of kindness?

the velocity of the butterfly is now intensifying 

A state of pure serenity.

The mango colored water.

The sun had set on yet another day, and I was ready to wake up the next day and start all over again.

I listened to my consistent soft step on the hard pavement, 

as I walked the now familiar streets,

located a mile below the 22 pairs of leather shoes dangling in the wind.

Nerves tingled the bottoms of their feet.