On the sidewalk
outside a store or a cafe
or a coffee shop
the sun throws daylight
against hot glass.
Reflections chase reflections
in this familiar place,
and, impossibly close,
my mind holds nothing
but you.
Step by step
crack by crack,
forward and back,
I avoid the now
where you aren’t.
But I can’t
get
the rhythm
right.
A rush of wind
sends a heart-shaped balloon
pounding, trapped,
against a rib cage of branches–
and the present
is a bomb,
unmarked and unknown
beneath this beating tree.
But back there,
caught in your teeth,
your words on my skin–
my eyes on my feet–
what was the last thing you said?
and what if I never hear it again?
And right here
I don’t see the bus
until it’s too late,
locked tight in a hug
with the curb.
Impossibly close,
and less real than you,
solid and pressing
as urgent as now
one step from forever—
But I can’t
get
the rhythm
right.
Words and photo © Jaime Greenberg, 2022
