Dupont Tri-Con
Traffic circle sloshing;
pedestrians pressing up
against tensile city regulations,
flashing horns and sweat,
university student afternoon,
wiping off iced coffee condensation.
I am a dedicated historian of
lunchtime stories and
park bench vignettes—
a spectacled lesbian runs her pinky
through her lover’s curly purple hair,
as she looks on at the cyclist, filled with regret,
stumbling to avoid the picnicking workers—
together by convenience and ambition—
who pity the down-on-their-luck in their dehydration,
trying to find a pillow on the steps of the fountain.
The rims of my glasses eliminate the peripheral,
underlining the weight of disjointed conversations:
a chuckle, a skipped step to avoid a puddle
sweeping the storefront, eroding the road,
I remain, trying to separate scenes from the bustling.
The circle never exists the same again.
What does it mean if I dream about you?
What does it means when I see your face in nothing…
Copyright © Rose Dallimore | Year Posted 2019
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