Shivering, I’m standing, watching cars drive pass.
Neck swiveling, I pan in
to make eye contact with a driver through his glass.
Red lights prevent us all from hitting the gas in “rough” neighborhoods.
The same places for where we collect canned goods.
The same faces we never truly see,
unless intentions are misunderstood.
Like when a man stops at the bench behind me,
to pull a ski mask out of his bag.
He immediately gets my attention.
My numb hands now feel the tension.
Exhales caught in misty suspension.
My flight mode is pending.
His arms are bending toward his bowing head.
His hands are mending face with thread.
And Like the black space of this sunless morning,
his identity sheds.
The lights lose their reds,
The drivers turn their heads,
and the man proceeds to tread-
off into the arms of his 9-5,
armored in his knitted fabric,
which has been crafted,
to protect his skin from the sting
of nature’s frigid hold.