I haven't tried my hand at poetry in quite a while, but two young women who walk past our house several mornings each week inspired this effort:

Jabberwalkers***

On nice days (never in the rain), they walk down our street around sunrise:

Two lithe young women in color-coordinated shorts, t-shirts and baseball caps.

They lean forward as they walk, swinging their arms meaningfully;

You’d think they were on an important mission unless you listen to them.

While they walk they talk, loudly, but they don’t say anything profound; only

Snatches of bitchy gossip drift in through our open bedroom window as they pass.

Lime green cap: “I hate to say it, but she . . .” and “I wouldn’t say it to her face, but . . .”

Pink shorts whines, “He just doesn’t get it . . .”or “I don’t know why I put up with . . .”

I don’t know them, and if I say “Good Morning” while fetching the newspaper

Their disdainful glances make it plain they don’t want to know me.  At dawn

I much prefer to encounter the runners and cyclists who wave, or even the neighbor

Who stops to chat while her Labrador patiently pees on my rosemary bush.

Still, I’m intrigued by these haughty women who wear big diamond rings

And pony tails while they walk and talk at sunup.  Why, I wonder, do they dress

As if they are on their way to the country club, but jabber in tones

More appropriate to a honky-tonk bar where the music is very loud?

            *** with apologies to Lewis Carroll