Schubert Ave

A woman walks with cement-clad legs and a man halts his wheels with no concern. Peering through windows and I know he is the only one alive here. Carrying donuts and dragging garbage and the bus is taking up too much space. Is it the winter that makes us walk as clones— with hands in pockets and feet scuffled? I take in my surroundings with baited breath. Caboose of a billboard distorted in my mind— each time I gaze I know it is not my future home.

I return five hours later and it feels distant now with flocks of friends and walking sticks. Looking left and right and walking bikes and I don’t see any buses yet. A man in monochrome brown (to match his luggage of course) uses the crosswalk and I wonder if he has ever felt crushing guilt— the kind that manifests in your skull as pinpricks. How did they hang the bouquets among lampposts?

I’ve never been a car person but I think it’s strange how many there are. Trucks and convertibles along one southbound path and I wonder if they have braked for pedestrians on the same day on opposite sides of the city. Have they failed to? Have you ever killed someone? Have you seen the air float above as green mist and skin turn plum and ripen in the sun? I forget there is a flag ten feet below me and my eyes cannot take in the body of it.

Two hours later and I do declare my legs will soon solidify as well but there is a bird chirping and I cannot see him. I see myself walking among brick and peering through windows and I know I am the only one alive here.

— ODH