a stranger springs from the sidewalk

like this week's blooms, the same pink,

same bright green. weather's taken a turn

towards the seasonal but I like how the bluster

makes my walk for a pocket of warm more dramatic;

it's been a while since I got a breakfast sandwich

here, we both note

but I don't mention my new year's taste

for the smoky vegan ones of the other corner.

on return my eyes are lost in plans,

though not so much I don't enjoy a step

into the crossing stalling some luxury semisuv.

is there time for laundry before I join a

three year old neighbor at the museum? I should

do it now to make sure, before

the first poem on buttondown. but I find

myself sat with a steaming mouth to write

and wasn't this ever the practice here? stray

observations known at their will, soft and sharp,

mewling an ambiguity of hunger and joy.