The man on the streetcorner huffs and puffs
and blows an angry wind at the passersby.
They recoil from his bloodshot eyes,
his blistered neck and forearms,
his indignant, wire-brush hair.
He argues aloud with himself.
Only the crimson-faced woman who swears
that Elvis speaks to her through the commode
will challenge him.
They shout absurdities across the intersection
while pedestrians hurry past,
studying their shoes,
their phones.
The pedestrians also carry on conversations
with themselves,
ones they have learned to conduct silently.
They rehearse old grievances,
deliver eloquent speeches to absent adversaries,
plot revenge,
imagine escape.;
Traffic barrels beneath the office towers.
Drivers hurl obscenities
from air-conditioned boxes.
A couple stumbles into the road
before an approaching tour bus.
The bus swerves.
A horn screams.
An SUV slams its brakes.
For one bright second,
the whole city shows its teeth.
The couple regains the sidewalk.
Drivers continue on their way.
No one is struck.
No one is saved.
The man on the corner loses his place,
starts again.
The crimson-faced woman resumes
shouting at him.
Their voices fade beneath the traffic.
The crowd parts around them.
I find myself hoping
someone, somewhere
is waiting up for those two.
