A woman is walking ahead of me
in the dust and gravel and popped
aluminum tabs that jingle like
the lost keys to happiness
when Friday sets and Saturday rises
and eyes blink in the dry air
behind a bus trundling away
one step too fast
into the vein I missed.
Her bags are thin
ambitions pointed setters
pushing hard toward home improvements
with tools she may use,
or may hold with the best intent.
The gray tagged handles
poking through the tan and stretching clear film
are like the grays in her pinned bun
coming unsprung,
but not for lack of care.
My bag is light,
closing the distance,
my feet taking on the bounce and turns of
her swinging plastic,
my head taking on little dreams of
the things she is planning to do,
the emptiness of my pockets and
purpose locked in the gap between
planning and my own lost keys
filling with her determination
to do and thrilled to be
on a way apart from
the things I've missed and
less aware.
I kick a stone
that smacks against a crushed can
pool of reflected Saturday sky and
cut back the opposite
as she looks to see
what it is that will overtake her next and
I match her steps
while she looks away and
feel the seconds of her filled hands sway and
springy grays and knob knuckled grip and
time compressed spine and child bored hip and
the home she intends to fix and care tender and
her face turns to right,
satisfied that nothing is come,
directly into the sun
of my chip toothed smile
and upturned shades.
She blinks and returns
with a sigh and a touch of her hand
to her breast and I
do the same
in returning to my own and
bid her the best of days
as I walk on toward nothing so beautiful,
nothing so concrete as a destination
in the heat of summer and
nothing but buses to catch and
repairs to make
to homes I dream
with empty pockets and bags and
graying hairs laced across my mind.
