this is what I had for lunch, the carts
a banal exercise in motion,
the women under umbrellas.
wife, or maybe it's his leather briefcase
wet in the rain above the station. one woman
has luminous skin,
in her brown shoe. I can see
her hands reaching for muskmelon as she tells
she is waiting to say something, to tell us a secret,
fallen like leaves, and she turns.
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