The View From Above

Photo by Robert Kalinagil on Unsplash

In my hotel room, I have a bird’s-eye view of the Farmers’ Market I used to go to every Saturday when I lived here. And now, at this distance, I can finally see it.

I clicked send on the message

telling a sometimes friend I won’t see her today —

and thus began the slow and necessary ending of a friendship

that fostered growth for neither of us.

Six floors down, in the middle of the Saturday Market,

keyboard trumpets play “Africa” — I close my eyes —

The air I breathe is Time baked in summer light,

sweet ache of the years I lived here,

came to the market every week, list in hand,

walked home blind to the sweet chaos of it all.