She should’ve kept her mouth shut.
So what if this lunatic was littering in her favorite park, the one with the lilacs and the wrought iron benches.
Turn a blind eye; clean up after he’s gone.
But she didn’t want to. She wanted him held accountable. And she did exactly that.
It didn’t stop there though. She persisted, ridiculing his beat-up Plymouth Breeze, colored shit brown. And his yellowed whitewalls. A critique as withering as it was accurate.
Now she had a large, unhappy maniac bearing down on her. Fists clenched; nostrils flared.
She should’ve just kept her mouth shut.
The Weekday One Hundred 