Pedestrian

On any other day

on any other street

he would be different. 

 

But it is June 27th

in Laguna Niguel, California

and here, he is:

 

benign or

funny or

intriguing,

 

this black mohawk wearing

youth striding along, pants tucked in his combat boots,

metal-studded jacket open to a t-shirt reveal,

 

black on black on black

except for the white letters on his clothes,

the white of his face,

 

and the red riot of roses clutched

in his expected fist—expected

because he is a punk,

 

unexpected because it bears a gift.

A gift for whom

she wonders as she waits for the light

 

to change.  Girlfriend?  Maybe.

Mother?  Now that would

be amusing.

 

She walks for a moment beside him

in her mind, striking up a conversation

that she would never contemplate

 

on a city street

in a dark alley.

Because there, he would be

 

recognizably a threat.  And here?

It’s 82 degrees, and he’s sweating

through his black clothes.

 

And he’s carrying red roses

wrapped in a white grocery bag,

for someone else.


(c) 2007  Laura J Morefield