The Quiet Time.
The people, were there.
Just like yesterday.
Cue stage left.
Some sat, read, or stayed standing but all
Waiting as the bum-ba-ba-ba-bumba-chicka
Bum-ba-ba-ba-bumba-chicka pattered the rhythm of the morning.
Quickly setting in with the shoes on the weathered low pile orange carpet,
Worn and stained by sneakers, stilettos, and pieces of the city street.
A relic of the 70’s.
And the keeper of the quiet time.
Hold us close and stay with us awhile,
If the city is our home, she is our nanny,
Sneaking us a taste of alone.
Like the chewy sweets and chocolates our babysitters slipped into our palms when our parents weren’t home, and said no.
Her voice, white, pushes my mind off-track as we scoot along together.
I usually think about love, or politics, or being grown.
There minutes later, I’m there. Hell, I’m already wearing the clothes.
I look down at my shoes, half a pair. Breathe out. Look forward, peer left, resume.
And it hits me…
From the ground up, courage soaks my bones. Glance up, resume. Stage right cue.
And it’s quiet time again.