Out to lunch
a muggy July Monday,
nowhere special to go.

Moving with the signal:
walk, don’t walk,
darting, defying the rolling metal,
breathing heavy
and wondering why
he is running to get somewhere,
doesn’t know where,
nowhere special to go.

Leaning into stride, weaving, stumbling
into bargain books, stopping
to rest at a table marked ninety-nine cents,
mostly junk,
blowing away the dust,
picking up a poet he never heard of
plus tax,
stepping into stride again,
rushing to get somewhere,
doesn’t know where,
nowhere special to go.

Marching to the dissonance of horns on horns
and squeals of rubber on concrete
and sidewalk fiddlers and pneumatic drills
and the quicktime cadence of his heartbeat,
halting, eyes facing front:
coming straight at him, familiar face
of a thousand nights
and maybe a thousand more.

Coming straight at him, shaded eyes
that seem to focus through his eyes and flash
motion pictures on his mind,
coming straight at him, unguarded smile
that smiles first,
passes by too quickly.

Reaching out, touching nothing,
crying out as a mute cries out:
come back, come back.
Standing as a fool,
watching her silent hello disappear in the crowd,
lingering
for a last look at love that never lived
except in pasteboard on a bedroom wall.

The crowd pushing him on to somewhere,
he doesn’t know where,
he has nowhere special to go.