Don’t Walk
On the corner of 28th Street and Seventh Avenue
Was where he first caught sight of her.
There may have been some sort of glow about her,
But upon first glance,
He wasn’t quite sure.
Two parallel white lines
On the congested avenue
And the bright orange
“DON’T WALK”
Was but the stage that she stood—
A mere backdrop.
Was it her skirt?
A prismatic patchworking
Of squares on bias grain line.
Simple, ordinary creature,
Instead of a purse clutched
A tired wicker picnic basket,
Tattered corners and fraying edges.
The street lamp switches—
Orange to white;
The DON’T to WALK
And she disappears
In the sea of bodies
With either a bounce or a limp—
Black hair lapping
Against the soft skin of her back.
He may have thought her to be the girl
In the café.
The one who would pour the liquid wax
From the candle onto the table.
She would mold it with her hands;
Some sort of deft rhythmic movement,
Sculpting it
Into a tiny white rose.
She would pass it across the table to him
With a quiet giggle,
While men drink themselves to death,
Smoking cigarettes,
Dreaming of Lost Love.
