A blue veined sky stretched overhead
touching horizons with a quiet thinness.
A cellophane skin covered the sun,
like a mist in a dream being pulled
tightly with the cord of your thoughts
as a reckless collision of emotions
presses hard to the surface, fighting
for importance; the words from yesterday and the
doors today yet opened
while you wait for the next rush of
humble winds at an intersection you’ve
been to before, traffic brushes by
going someplace without you
but there on the sidewalk is your
name written in chalk
with an arrow pointing
that you follow.
Roger Singer 