The Walk Light at
seems to take forever to come on.
Cars come down
Florence quick and constant,
flowing as an un-swimmable mass
of blurry colors and blinding chrome.
A man on a rusty bicycle stops
and sets his feet on the concrete walk;
plastic bags full of empty cans
sway back and forth on the handle bars.
On the far side a woman in running shoes
leans against the stop light pole,
presses the metal button once,
and pushes back in a long slow stretch.
We have come to a stop at anywhere,
like townspeople frozen on a page
of a yellowed hardbound picture book,
on a city street between world wars,
waiting for the drawbridge to set down,
sharing in casual nod and glance,
this momentary intersection
of unconnected lives,
or travelers bound together,
by a pause on an ancient river bank,
the ferry still at the opposite shore,
the river moving fast in deep mid stream.