The Jaywalker
The city has evacuated the streets at this hour,
and vacancy has given his unsteady feet
right of way at every intersection.
The traffic lights, sticklers for rules, continue
color-coding priorities for non-existent movements,
frowning on his jaywalking but indifferent
to his zigzagging.
The bar has dispensed all its sympathy for one night,
so the flood of misery has now been diverted
by closing time into the open,
private grief on public display on an empty street,
the whiskey in his stomach threatening an uprising,
pushing his upper body and legs in two different directions
but doing nothing to blot out the
full-screen news ticker rolling across his
consciousness for the first time
with a single breaking story:
SHE LEFT ME FOR ANOTHER MAN SHE LEFT ME FOR ANOTHER MAN
SHE LEFT ME FOR ANOTHER MAN . . .
He’s reeling from the hollowness that still seems
to be expanding in him,
feeling singled out for suffering,
not yet knowing that he’s merely
following in the footsteps of countless others
who have lurched and stumbled in the same way to
a semblance of emotional balance,
the pain inoculating him against future pain.
Through all the green and amber and red lights
he staggers on towards the limits of innocence,
until the night furls its shadows,
and the sky is a furtive grey.
Copyright © Bernard Chan | Year Posted 2019
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