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.