Pointing Back

Pointing back From where I sit, this crowded street of frowning faces and lying eyes meander past the mom and pop facades with kids in tow… tethered by their wants and constant whining now glaring at me as if, I am the problem I wave them off in my best oceanic gesture, casting salty aspirations to the ground around my feet… all the while keeping my fitted thoughts to myself For opposite this asphalt divider of pot holes and swept debris she sits, twisting her chocolate hair around her finger, staring at the clock, waiting Wearing her favorite dress, glistening crimson nail and lip paint The violent sun finds my shoulders scattering grey clouds between the concrete and neon folded on the structure facing my perch A single drop of sweat rolls down my cheek, on this day more will come Mixed, blended, hidden or defined by tears held back, losing the battle I take in the second story window, shade slightly drawn and I imagine her Jumping excitedly at the knock, a quick mirrored touch up and fanciful bounces, as smiles lead her to his rugged features and fat wallet The engine idles, I can smell the fumes dancing across my nostrils, sickened Floating the steps, (they) she looks happy, then at me her head drops, sad or thankful, probably Engine revs, my eyes fill as thunderstorms erupt on my face, (they) she disappears My heart near death, beating slow it reels on this day, while others, in their mindless pandering and nose followed directions, stare and point I spit, reaching our heart encased initials carved in the stained and tiring sidewalk My chest throbs, legs weak and nonexistent, transparent of hurt and glass filtered wishes Pointing back at those who would judge, I shout… Yes, I am the problem!