I walk towards the crowd.
Criss-crossing cement, I plant my feet on words.
Strangers unknotting themselves. I slip mercilessly.

The lady litters with whispers: why are you wearing those shorts?
I answer: because I like them.
She flies away. Her mouth speaking backwards. Her eyelashes a deep blue.

Middle-aged man: I am plagued.
The lines on his face like prison grills.
Walk on -- I said -- deliver yourself.
No point in making it to the next chapter, his reply.

I know this like a chance I should have taken.
Like a vaccine.

Samosas. Across the street from this marbled, leathered lobby.
Trees cast shadows like hunkering leopards.
The blinking signs. Hardly remembered.
Avoiding the spit: I trip on the curb.

The creek follows the line of the road.
A guilty stench. A wordless murky stream.
Dangerous and gentle. The city hall looms above.

A monologue from a security guard: everyday I buy your softdrinks and your bread.
How come you never give me a discount?
Another: how many times do you need to tell me that?
If there was a fruit stand, I would descend rapidly.

There are incantations with text the size of shrimp
etched on the walls of the synogogue.
I make it to my doorstep. An uncomplicated silence ensues.
Along with: cigarette smoke and the chatter of children.