AWAKENING ATROPOS

As I was walking down the street,
one beautiful Albuquerque day in San Diego,
to my car parked on College Ave.,
down, then up the hill, past Beth Jacob--

she appeared, as if from the macadam,
like a 3-D daguerreotype
arrayed in hues of sepia,
with a black dog on a leash,
its fur fringed in burnt sienna.

She was holding, like a crosier, a staff
surmounted with a pruning blade,
sharp edge glinting in the Mediterranean light.

She crossed the street towards me
and kicked an object on the ground
that made a clattering sound,
as if to say I'm really here,
and picked it up, whatever it was.

As I approached her where she'd stopped,
she was looking at the object in her hand,
and struck a pose, head turned to the side,
dark honey-toned curls hiding her face,
her body in full view--
leather bracelet around her wrist,
loose skirt like a tunic, revealing
in black nylon panties, her mons veneris,
feet shod in black leather boots
like Greek buskins.

You should address a ghost with,
'Who are you, and where are you from',
but I was too enthralled taking her in.

Was she a crazy homeless person
wandering the streets during the day
and sleeping at night in the ravine at the bottom of the hill,
where the great grey tree towers like
an Amazon Mora or African fromager?

Or had she emerged from the macadam,
a demon escaped from the hell of the damned?

I passed her by,
then looked back
to make sure I had seen her--
Atropos, she who cannot be avoided,
she who holds the shears
that snip the thread of life.