One Busy Intersection
The man in the orange hat wanders 6th Street. He heads south on this summer solstice morning, searching inward, deeper with each step, coursing the inner planes, asking himself, “Where is the beginning of this familiar pattern which arrives untimely in its core?”
Passing the Ten Thousand Villages store he stumbles, stops. His image in the storefront window beams a reflection he does not recognize. “Who am I?” he whispers to the image. But the window whispers in a language he doesn’t comprehend, answers to any question he seeks. He stands there transfixed; the penetrating sun dissolves the image, seared into memory.
The woman exits the bank, heading toward Avenue A.
She looks left. Doesn’t see the Chevy Impala careening around the curve.
Stuffs the envelope filled with fifty’s into her cleavage.
Car swerves to avoid a cyclist, jumps the curb.
She reels back onto archless feet.
They buckle underneath her stupendous wrath.