{"id":48230,"date":"2019-06-22T12:02:34","date_gmt":"2019-06-22T16:02:34","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/?p=48230"},"modified":"2019-06-22T12:02:34","modified_gmt":"2019-06-22T16:02:34","slug":"women-with-strollers","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/2019\/06\/women-with-strollers\/","title":{"rendered":"Women with strollers"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>Women with strollers pause languidly<br \/>\nin front of my front windows\u2014 panes<br \/>\nlike chromatic stained glass, panes<br \/>\nthat love light like an invisible oil spill.<br \/>\nThe heat slows them. There is never a cry<br \/>\nfrom the covered strollers. There is never a cry<br \/>\nfrom them. <\/p>\n<p>Women with strollers stalk the sidewalks<br \/>\nof my one-street neighborhood, elongated<br \/>\ncul-de-sac lined with brick townhouses<br \/>\nand dormer windows and polyester flags<br \/>\nthat read \u2018Welcome\u2019 in the same font,<br \/>\npatterns that change with the seasons.<br \/>\nTheir eyes are marbles, heads lean<br \/>\nto the left, black wheels crunch the concrete. <\/p>\n<p>Women with strollers are quiet, keep<br \/>\nto their kind. There are no words or looks<br \/>\nexchanged, not even to cross the street to continue<br \/>\ntheir path or when they break ranks<br \/>\nfor the evening. There are no friendly<br \/>\nnods to neighbors, no \u201cNice day, isn\u2019t it?\u201ds,<br \/>\nno smiles at leashed Golden Retrievers<br \/>\nor smirks at middle aged men wearing socks<br \/>\nwith their sandals. <\/p>\n<p>Women with strollers circle like sharks, pass<br \/>\nmy windows on the hour. Keeping time.<br \/>\nI peeked into a flat stroller once, a perambulator lying flat, designed for infants,<br \/>\npushed by a woman with airily sculpted hair,<br \/>\nthin and bright. The stroller was empty.<br \/>\nI peek as often as I can. It is always empty. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Women with strollers pause languidly in front of my front windows\u2014 panes like chromatic stained glass, panes that love light like an invisible oil spill. The heat slows them. There is never a cry from the covered strollers. There is never a cry from them&#8230;.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1119,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-48230","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-marathon-poem"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/48230","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1119"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=48230"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/48230\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":48356,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/48230\/revisions\/48356"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=48230"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=48230"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=48230"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}