You watch the entrance of a young black girl who steps sideways while viewing pastry no one should eat and overpriced fruit drinks; she thinks to try something new but settles for coffee…with room.
You listen as a long table full of police—plainclothes police—talk about their families. One shows a picture of his daughter to a woman officer. One woman among eight men. She responds perfectly. In that way the father knew his fellow cops never could.
You reflect on friends and wonder their Monday. One friend faces decisions of chemo too soon after surgery. You pause at this thought—at length. You think of family. You think of pain. And you think of a husband, your friend, who stands steadily by, doing everything but the thing he can’t do.
Across the street you see a young Asian man slip on ice. You see his mouth open and arms fly back and watch him go down on one silent knee. You see him get back up and walk the walk of the aged until the ice is crossed. Then he goes on—his normal gait.
You consider ‘normal’ and remember Cockburn’s lyric about the trouble with normal, which is, that it always gets worse.
You feel the greyness of sky on your shoulders through the 17 foot windows and sense spring’s reluctance. Or is it winter’s dogged desire?
You become thankful for the young woman wearing bright pink flowered leggings with a flowing, even flouncing white print skirt with large grey palm leaves, or are they taro leaves? You remember Kauai and it’s outrageous desire.
You remember a thought you had, you thought abut poetry, that there was, in the end, only poetry. This is what you thought; and now you think, your mind is a bird with an injured wing.
You listen to Tom Waits sing "Hold On" and you think again of your friend. And this is what you’re left with, the rest you know is only words.