#mobilities

Should I push it?                  Someone, too, is waiting for the light                  across the street distanced from the pole                  and looking at her phone                  ears plugged in but I’m going to assume that she pressed it                  and even if not                                    someone will                  or the lights will turn on                  anyhow wait, wait ––

my hands resting peacefully in my pockets shoulders soft like the warm wind this pause in constant mobility cherished at the intersection of wondrous delights for good things take time, slowly like magic, the light-post speaks in an affectionate computer voice beckoning me onward

The body crossed to street                    to get to the other side

Looking up the hill I feel                 the backpack straps dig into                 shoulders so sunken                 sinking into my own underarms                 sweaty and grimy, smelling                 like spring in that musty nature way                 of heat and stains, already I have a head of bed hair that smells                 like detergent and I carry                 a spare toothbrush in my                 hip pocket because my mouth                 is a tomb of dead bacteria                 from which I spew out self-frustrations Why did I leave the last minutes to such                 rush, why did last night end so                 late in the morning, why did the printer                 inspire stuttering ink spills, my mind spilled                 I’m fast-walking with a stiff knee                 across the paved sidewalk, along                 indifferent cars that are offensive                 in their speed making me wait at this lonesome intersection, eyeing the                 ominous god-like palm, red with                 the blood of retired patience                 I push the walk button, so rigid                 like a frigid nipple that it hurts my thumb                 and my dying composure                 as I push repetitively, growingly angrily                 waiting for the river of metal shelters, those                 impersonal vehicles to subside I push the dead button with a cold, red thumb                 one last time and run across the zebra                 lines caged in asphalt before the red hand                 can demand my mobility so whimsically                 for 16 seconds                                  then leave me hanging

              I run.

566-568.