Postcard Fiction #6


You close the front door, lock it and step down to the walkway.

You lift your face into the morning breeze.

You cross the street at an angle, your feet taking you toward the river.

You turn down the lane with the house that’s hidden behind a tree tunnel.

You keep walking, sniffing the jasmine, sidestepping the dog poop, rounding the curve,

And before you know it you have unzipped yourself from your body.

It lies on the ground behind you like a heavy leather coat.

Your strides propel you forward not quite touching the ground.

You are new.