Sitting in traffic
Slow enough that missing details
From previous days can be seen

What an architect was thinking

And the back of a post-it note
In a 16th story office window

A lost wallet and its contents
Cast like bread for ducks
On a quiet pond
Unceremoniously spread on the
Shoulder of a freeway off ramp
He must wonder where it is…

More blue tarps than before
The quiet sections of the park
Hundreds of years and the poor
Still live on the estate grounds

Sometimes you can see both faces
But not often

Maybe when the men fish
The ritual and the escape
A place outside where no one
Asks anything of you
Not even the absent fish.

The traffic begins to clear
The bus picks up speed
Life resumes and breakneck speed
And the details are that much harder to see.