Missing My Father

Sitting on a city corner,

safely encased in glass.

My breakfast windows, looking out.

I am innocently amazed

at the sheer number and

variety of humans walking by.

A field full.

A beautiful field of tamed flowers,

walking the lines they’ve drawn to follow.

Some dressed in other people’s clothes,

others talking to themselves,

and not to friends.

Some worried,

some hunched with their walkers walking them.

Groups of teens laughing,

backpacks swinging.

Fathers pushing strollers.

Businesswomen in running shoes,

always off to the races.

And here’s the guy with the swagger.

Hands in pockets,

shades over his eyes.

But he’s passed twice,

so maybe he doesn’t have a plan.

The girl with the earrings,

too big for her age.

But what do I know?

And my breakfast compatriots,

murmuring, teaspoons clinking,

eyes fixed on plates,

not the field of flowers.

And here I am.

I touch the shoulder of the man in the wheelchair,

who smiles at me as I pass.

We are all so human,

I could cry.