Sketch II

The hat is a felted roof
over her head, its broad eaves
bearing down on her face.
Her nose stands out gracelessly
from the brim. The rest of her,
demure, sheathed in solemn
navy floral that falls down
to a slick patent heel.
She must be a witch. Something
off the silver screen.
Barely resurrected, she gains
a flight of stairs, just in time
to shoot me a stern look,
glossy and cold, like a silver arrow,
to admonish me for not crossing
my legs in a skirt.