A Chinese woman wheels three stacked whtie boxes across bush street at noon, during a break in traffic. The bungee on her cart snaps, the boxes tip and crash in the right lane just in front of a subterranian parkig garage entrance, the traffic peaks over the hill and begins its descent toward her.
while
a homeless man just across the street carefully pushes a dangling silver earring into a once pierced ear, he stops the latino guy with black sunglasses, tsubi jeans, a black american apparel hoody, and creative facial hair, asking for assistance with the jewelry. The latino guy says "what do you want me to do" before registering that he has been enlisted to push silver through the greyed and filthy lobe of a stranger, all this and he's just looking for Level 4 hair salon, because just before the earring and the boxes tipping he asked you where it was.
But your voice, which has gotten tiny, almost a whisper, not quite a rasp, was too confusing for him so rushed on toward the homeless man, toward the wrong salon.
The less you say, the less you want to. The sun heats your freshly shaven head, your shoulders through your mesh shirt, the backs of your legs, your shadow lands just below your feet, and your feet land just on top of it.
The wind comes at you from behind as you pass the latino man and the homeless man, as cars rush down the hill at the three fallen white cardboard boxes and the chinese lady struggling with her cart and bungee. The wind comes up soft with a smell of cigarettes, pine, and hot pavement. The smell reminds you of your father, and grape soda. A plate glass window throws your face back at you, and you see briefly how you will look at 40 then 50, the wind stops. The traffic stops. You cross the street back to work. Your shadow close and small and close.
while
a homeless man just across the street carefully pushes a dangling silver earring into a once pierced ear, he stops the latino guy with black sunglasses, tsubi jeans, a black american apparel hoody, and creative facial hair, asking for assistance with the jewelry. The latino guy says "what do you want me to do" before registering that he has been enlisted to push silver through the greyed and filthy lobe of a stranger, all this and he's just looking for Level 4 hair salon, because just before the earring and the boxes tipping he asked you where it was.
But your voice, which has gotten tiny, almost a whisper, not quite a rasp, was too confusing for him so rushed on toward the homeless man, toward the wrong salon.
The less you say, the less you want to. The sun heats your freshly shaven head, your shoulders through your mesh shirt, the backs of your legs, your shadow lands just below your feet, and your feet land just on top of it.
The wind comes at you from behind as you pass the latino man and the homeless man, as cars rush down the hill at the three fallen white cardboard boxes and the chinese lady struggling with her cart and bungee. The wind comes up soft with a smell of cigarettes, pine, and hot pavement. The smell reminds you of your father, and grape soda. A plate glass window throws your face back at you, and you see briefly how you will look at 40 then 50, the wind stops. The traffic stops. You cross the street back to work. Your shadow close and small and close.
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