Morning Commute

Today, The beggar woman on the corner held a sign that said: "Dance Teacher, laid off, anything helps." And in the 60 seconds my car sputtered indignantly beside her, I watched the feral lines in her face I imagined her skin was soft, and unobtrusively without confession Swaddled in a thin gray sweater, I romanticize, That she threw this on, as she walked into the sharp Autumn air Veiled in a gleaming burst of creativity. Her body warm from her feet dragging across the floor To the songs I secretly like I ponder shamefully How many pliés, and twirls and graceful arches with her arms were made before tripping onto this corner? Gossiping mouths of freeway on-ramps That become our living rooms, kitchens and halls. I love her anyway When spectators throw dollar bills instead of roses Out of cocoons that smell of white mochas