They stride into our world,
legs sheathed in Levis,
baseball caps, shades of pastel,
adorning heads.
Their movement, unlike ours,
effortless, we who stand
on distended feet
at day’s end, lowering
congealed frames
into plastic seats
inside the bus that will haul us
to obscure apartments,
retreat from a public
that we peruse,
smile at, or abruptly
curse.
Yet, we bless
these beings, knowing
we shall submit,
contemplating those who will gently lift
the present into a world
we shall never see.
Nice poem Steven.
Might you be the same Steven Van Pelt who managed at Brentano’s in another lifetime?
If so, I was a difficult—to say the least—employee who made your life there unnecessarily painful.
I hope you are well and happy.
Frank