Sidewalks

It’s Sunday morning and the city is frosted. A gray sky swallows exhaust smoke as people rush through; every one way, one wave.  

She stands along the cracked sidewalk. She’s holding a cigarette in one hand, a cell phone in the other.  Her nose is red and she twists her hips to keep warm. She listens to the other line.

Inhale.

Birds perch on power lines.

Exhale.  

  

The train barrels over the bridge above. Below are cars building up, awaiting permission from colored lights. First in line sits a golden Cadillac sedan. An elderly man and woman are sunk into the tan, leather seats. They are looking forward. She catches their attention.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Twist. 

They glance over her. Her jeans reflect a broken TV.  Metal connects her nostrils. Their heads shake in sync as she locks her eyes on them.  

The light turns green.  They are distracted by her stare. But cars begin to honk and soon they aim the Cadillac, heads still shaking; they turn away.

The train above finishes the cross; birds take flight into the gray sky.

The Cadillac rumbles through the intersection. Their heads bobble with the pot holes.

She stomps out her cigarette and watches them pass. She smiles, and puts her hands into her pockets.