Between Market and Mission

 

Between Market and Mission

At the café on Market, a woman
in her friend's arms, a sadness I
recognize—by the way her body
weeps—as feeling endless.

Coffee in hand, I step wide to
avoid the puddle formed from
three days of rain still falling. I walk

one block, my umbrella unfurled.
On my shoulders, I carry my life
and my work. At Mission, a man on a bike

crosses with the traffic as I wait for
the light to change. He smiles and I forget
my usual caution and smile too. He turns
around then, rides up to pause beside me.

"I want to tell you three things," he says.
"One, you're really cute. Two, your
shoe's untied, and three, have a good weekend."

On a Friday afternoon, even on this
flat expanse of one city block, I walk
an edge between grief and possibility.