Walk/Don't Walk

There's new blue paint
splattered in the crosswalk.
I don't know if its representation
of where Eula Long was hit,
or if its random pigmentation.
Fifty feet of pedestrian yo-yo,
the body whistles by,
an elder loon voice
broken by inattentive steel.

I heard the story
just a week before she died.
A lithographer, Eula went
to poetry seed when blind hands
refused paper and pen.
More barbed than the bark
of Saint Burbank's roses, her crone croon 
recorded "Cats and Doggerel",
just eight years short
of a very personal
century.