Colour

In the large bus,

the hustle, the unintentional touch,

the inadvertent bump.

She, the old lady

White hair the texture of cotton candy,

rolls her eyes and walks away.

A look of disdain and contempt meets only a look of bewilderment and incomprehension.

And she, the little girl,

the shattered piece of glass on the road,

that everyone semi-circles around,

but no one picks up.

She goes home, picks up an innocent eraser from her pencil case

and tries to rub the colour off of her face.