a perfect city day, by cyndi dawson

Busy streets, buzzing in
electric pulses.
I stop to talk to the man
in the light blue sweater
pretending not to notice
the curve of his shoulders
but he’s got the briefcase blues
awaiting him around the corner.

She stands in high heels
waving her hands
through the relentless autumn breeze.
A taxi pulls up,
it collects her like recycling
and she’s recycling days
just like the briefcase man.

I could not do this.
I run into the coffee shop
despite three cups I’ve already mainlined;
caffeine desperation for
human words.

He is writing in a sloppy eared notebook
when my eyes meet his.
Maybe he is writing
about this day.
Recording the whirl of heels
plugged into Bluetooth,
the crush of computers and tablets
hitting our sides in the crowd.

There are no places to sit
So I ask, could I join his table?
His eyes answer in complete sentences.
His notebook becomes silent
but silence becomes a novel.

It is instant, this connection.
Strangers in split seconds
and barefoot thoughts.
I try to lift the lid of my cup
but my hands are unsteady.
I spill a little, watching the line of it
sneak towards his notebook.
It hits perfectly, right into the ear of the dog-eared corner.

“Asshole!” he says in
more than a short sentence.
“What the hell?!”
He gets up, huffs away to join the briefcase sweater man, the high heeled taxi woman
and the computer crowd.

I think, that was the best part of my whole day
with real emotion.
Human exchange.

It was beautiful.

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