Between Whistles

Where was I going with this, something about the barber

Who sings while he works, the same tune every morning,

And how his scissors catch the light from his window

While I stand here watching, forgetting why I stopped.

The trolley bell clangs twice on Broad Street,

Same as it did when I was twelve and Mama

Sent me for flour and I came back with marbles instead,

My pockets full of glass and excuses.

What pulls me forward? Not destination.

I have no appointment, no urgent business,

Only this walking that has no reason,

Like breathing made visible in the cool air.

The baker's son sweeps his front step,

Whistling through the gap in his teeth,

And I remember whistling once, long ago,

Before I learned to keep my music quiet.

Here I am again, caught between

The man I was this morning at breakfast

And whoever I will be when I turn the corner,

Neither one nor the other but something in the making.

My hand holds three dimes and a letter

I wrote last Thursday but never mailed.

To whom? About what? The words blur now

Like ink spilled on wet paper.

I walk because walking is what bodies do,

Because the world insists on moving through me

And I through it, both of us surprised

To find ourselves here together.