Work Slow On a Thursday
The teenager in the intersection
straddles white line, throws a glance over his shoulder
like decoration and his eyes barely pass his periphery.
Slender hips ropey arms Navy Nike bag slung over shoulder,
maybe he never learned to look both ways. Maybe
he never had to. At a third floor window I note this to
my deskmate, who doesn’t look up, who has no time for poems
about the boy stopping traffic or the cars that don’t honk, and maybe
it’s a mistake that I have the desk near the window. It’s usually
the beech tree that gets me, smooth pliable bark leaves
quivering in the wind squirrels taking roost in y-shaped branches.
Beyond it the street isn’t a street but a road, mostly quiet, winding
toward the cemetery where they had the funeral for that cop and
my boss said it was a hassle getting to work and I said still,
at least you weren’t going There and we all were quiet
for a moment. The line of cars stretched further than my window
could tell, lights but no sirens and bright orange cones a final
send off to our dearly departed gathered here today to greet the
soft dark earth to a chorus of cicada and whimpers. Procession of
grievers like a breadcrumb trail. Then the phone rang
or the mail came or a letter needed stamping. And the beech tree
shook its leaves. And the wind’s direction changed. And we
carried on like always, only maybe our silence more full now than before.
Megan Mauro is a recent college grad floating through space waiting for something exciting to happen. She's a poet, caffeine aficionado, and firm believer in the Oxford comma. She has a lifetime love of people-watching and a guilty pleasure of writing greeting cards.