Commuting

8:17 a.m.

 

podcast bleeds Syrian over the unbuckling Velcro of studded tires on the wet pavement and despite the California stop of the cat at the four way I press the brake like a cockroach and let him go first

 

8:20 a.m.

 

stoplight winks green just as a dark tangle of motion steals my attention in the parking lot north where a fifty-something balding man in a burgundy Aero 19 hooded sweatshirt and torn jeans is striking and choking a small Hispanic woman in a khaki coat and backpack up against the fence so I honk and he invites me to join them; the honk of those behind me eager to arrive at their jobs jars me into closing my door and dialing 911 where a stern dispatcher gobbles up the details as man and woman dash in different directions

 

8:24 a.m.

 

in the six inches of shoulder that the onramp affords a ballcapped dude the age of my dead father grips a torn cardboard plea for assistance in his hands and a determinedly appropriate half-smile on his weathered face and I fork him a dollar over news of Walmart protests

 

8:51 a.m.

 

I sit in a foyer halfway through a cup of coffee. A fountain gurgles tranquility to my right and progressive, hip and well-educated colleagues in pea coats and scarves chatter smoothly awaiting the opportunity to sit around tables and consult with each other about the people we try to help heal in the world