What was it about me that hooked you in, little one?
Being but an infant, you might be labeled helpless.
Yet the strength of your barren stare stripped my veneer.
Suddenly there was no rush to get anywhere.
If anything, I was conscious that your mother, a stranger, might deem it inappropriate for me to linger, mesmerizing as you were, and calling out for me by my spontaneous nickname, Colorful.
So I met your protector, slender and youthful, short-bombed hair.
Short-bombed, black hair, and no makeup on her luminescent skin.
Suddenly, I imagine your face, how you would react.
Would you have kept walking, or like me, and like backwards at the sound of innocence aloud?
What would she have had to coot to enable you to pause, delightfully derailed from Monday's fast-paced purpose?
Deposed.