Finding Home

“...whites.”

The murmur was in the distance
as the girls crossed the street.

They stepped on the curb from the east,
I from the north, 
our feet touched the sidewalk together 
as they spoke.

“...whites.”

My ears perked.  
There was nothing to photograph
so I listened.

“I’ll need them, but all my whites are on the floor.”

Laundry.
She spoke of laundry.

We are here, in this moment -
Million year old light overhead,
half-gray moon raising over
stair-stepped spires on downtown structures,
We must, in this moment of timeless happenstance,
as my foot touches the north side of your
east side curb,
as air moves through your chords
vibrating meaning within my being
we must speak of laundry.

I cannot judge.  I have said no better.

You have a story.
So do I.

If your story is anything like mine
you have plot twists - vignettes of sorrow - moments
you’ve left all your whites on the floor.

Sometimes, when it’s quiet, you cry.
Sometimes, the walk between your door and the bar
is lonely.

Painfully
Soul crushingly
Lonely

You are alive.
So am I.

Regardless of your story, your life is like mine.
We share the same curbs,
Breathe the same air,
Wander under the same half-gray moon.
We hide behind the thin facade of skin, and
occasionally
catch a glimpse of the other.

You see me.
I see you.

Sometimes we see through the random billion
bits from the Big Bang until now.
Sometimes we see we are bastions of consciousness
collected in one city -

swarms of sentient monkey-men
crushing our feet against hardened
liquid stone
marking our path to places of shelter.

We realize all our whites are on the floor,
and we are all
finding home.