Tuesday, October 08, 2019


So I'm in a car. I'm in a car stopped at a traffic light.
On the block on which my son lives now. It's by the--
by the Starbucks redux, by the telephone pole, by the
old 7-11, the zebra crossing, the Asian buffet--And. At--

At the zebra crossing, a mom looks on fiercely as: her
skinny toddler drops her hand, and steps precisely--as if
at prom, then delays--to tiptoe the three steps--three steps
away to press the button--the button that will summon the

white walk-sign man. And then I think she says thank you.
That's it. Oh. NoNo. there's a baby too, who anchors the mom,
who had yielded attention for a moment, but is now bouncing--
bouncing, appealing, willing mom to look--look back. Willing

her to smile back. I imagine the baby is a girl; the toddler is a boy.
I'm not reading their signs, only feeling my past. And they're so
close, so I'm smiling and nodding my encouragement to the child,
the baby still bouncing in the pram, the mom. Nodding to myself--

It's that familiar. Memories buzz in the car's hum of silence. The
residuum of busy, sticky hands I've let go. Panic--a fog. The years
alertly sliding in--backlog. Stuck waiting for a sign--green--walk--
wait--ok fine--we're waiting--so incoherent with longing, still, life--

Ha. I've managed to sneak "At" And "NoNo" in there.


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