laughing in genuine mirth,
passed me going the other way.
That was last week.
Today a barefoot woman
roared at Market Street.
I had my face on,
and I didn’t know (often)
what I should do.
That’s part of urban life:
how busses are big red ads
and a busy street is a zoo.
It might have been the laughing man
who defaced the photo
where suddenly my feet
stopped: a doctor, stethoscope,
magic-marked red mouth,
neat black hair and bowtie,
neat black hair and bowtie,
and wet, beating heart
held on his fingertips
beneath the texture of trample.
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