corner room1
By Frank Kearns

The walk light at the end of the street
seems to take forever to come on.
Cars come down Florence quick and constant,
flowing as an un-swimmable stream
of blurry colors and blinding chrome.

A man on a rusty bicycle
sets his feet on the concrete walk
as plastic bags full of empty cans
sway back and forth on the handle bars.

On the far side a woman in running shoes
leans against the stop light pole,
presses the metal button once,
and pushes back in a long slow stretch.

We have come to a stop at anywhere,
like townspeople frozen on a page
of a yellowed hardbound picture book,
waiting for the drawbridge to set down,

sharing in casual nod and glance
this momentary intersection;
like travelers bound together
by a pause on an ancient river bank,
the ferry still at the opposite shore,

the river moving fast in deep mid stream.

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