Man with hands in pockets. Plaid shirt tucked in.
Wife, neat brunette circles gravestone.
Solemn cemetery next to chaotic 82nd Avenue.
For whom do they nod their heads? A recent loss.
Dressed respectfully, just exited a chapel.
Outside the steel Woman simply walks,
gregariously, with jutting, angular hip bones like beckoning sirens.
Eighties style hair flagging attention by passerbys.
A dead-ringer for Alec Baldwin's girlfriend in Miami Blues.
Shirt with cut-off sleeves, the loose part tied in a slipknot revealing her thin curves.
Straight ahead she looks, confident.
Prostitute discerning nothing of middle class aunts deceased from breast cancer.
Business professional weighing nothing of the fear of force and disease.
My young family driving 35 miles per hour with Bruce Springsteen prophesying, "Don't know when this chance might come again. If we could get skin to skin"
They pass in moments, trailers of my thoughts. I stare, paralyzed by music and reality.
The weight causes visceral angst. I inhale, blink to clear the buzz and ask the kids,
"Should we get juice boxes for our picnic?"
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