I'm not sure the teal in my socks,
Blends with the baby blue on my shirt.
My hair looks freshly slept on.
And I am late for the trolley.
It's dinging and I'm a block away,
Knowing that I can't run in these boots,
I submit to walking.
Voices in my head talking,
Telling me about the day ahead,
Recalling bits of dreams,
Laughing at his sleep talking,
Catching my reflection in windows.
I stop for a kombucha,
That refreshing fermented fad.
Which I swear I was drinking before you.
Or that hipster, foodie cashier.
I don't listen to music these days,
To make space for my own inner monologue,
And I started writing this.
Not quite a poem. Not quite a journal entry.
I'm walking under construction workers,
Watching other commuters,
Holding my kombucha bottle that looks like a beer bottle.
Do I look like a train wreck,
Slamming a beer on my way to work?
I face the label out,
Just in case.
I probably look more like a self-entitled, young, urban, professional,
Who thinks spending too much money on fermented tea,
Somehow will make my life longer,
Happier and healthier.
Oh yeah. That's probably exactly what I look like.
I toss the kombucha bottle into the recycyling.
It's only the 2nd glass bottle this morning.
It clunks loudly on the other bottle.
Startling the feeding pigeons.
They scurry and fly away,
One caught in this moment of decision,
Treading air and not sure where to go.
Ruffled feathers right in my face.
I'm taken aback for a moment,
Stunned in a hitchcockian transition,
Between my inner monologue,
And a startled bird.
The look on my face is caught by another pedestrian.