Because each morning I stand on a crossing platform
in a crowded intersection and some days more than others
I forget to guard myself within the center of this
concrete island
back to traffic lights And heels firmly planted And I wait on the edge and
I feel, not see, the cars go past me, 30, 40, 50miles per hour, a crawl
from behind the wheel feeling my jacket whipping
in their wake, my hair re-tangled hours after
brushing it. My eyes fix on the walk sign overhead
And I wait
And I think of what they can do
to my body