Magda wrote her name in purple
while standing on her head.
Unsteady on her feet,
this way worked best for her.

The flour mill whistle blew
the day before tomorrow.
Comrades filed by, lunch bags opened wide.
Icy brews waltzed in their heads.

Brown-suited guards upright and stiff,
eagle-eyed for pilfered paper, pens and the like.
Blind to back pockets bulging
with white powder.

House wrens from sleek high-rise apartments flew past,
silver-gilded memes seeking shelter from wayward storms.

Waiting for the ink to dry,
Magda tap danced to Hey Jude,
those sha-na-na-na’s she knew so well by heart.