On a street painted with the steps
                of the hurried and the dreaming, I am
                                a whisper among shouts. A child’s laughter
                bursting like an air bubble, spiraling
                in the beach’s splashing light.

An old man perches a storybook on a bench to etch
                his face with tales deep as tree rings, padding
                                his worn trails. The love
                he knew, now simmering—tea leaves
                                in the evening calm.

A woman darts by the bench—her conversation
                                a string of pearls lost to the wind. She wavers
                on a tightrope of her own making. Squeezing
                lemons into her schedule, I see her

spinning gold from her straw. Beneath
                the canopy stretching its wide arms, roots

crochet stories into cobblestones.
                Each passerby a brushstroke on the easel, easily
                                missed. Pale faces glowing

in the artificial light, life unfolding
                in novels before them. A footnote

in the epic of the street, I bear witness

                to the living scarves unwinding, each world
                whipping around on its own axis, forever
                                a riddle, as we are.