Weathered

SkyWalking

All night our building
swayed in the arms
of the angry wind,
a boozy old woman
on a cruise ship.

The early stillness
of the morning after
punctured
by an earthquake,
doors creaked
in their wooden frames,
the pendant light
swung across
the dining room.

We opened the drapes
to crayola blue skies
and
Mount Fuji
who was out
for a stroll.
“Good morning,”
she said,
“You’ve weathered
another storm.”

An umbrella-shade woman
smiled as we passed through
the black and white striped
land of the traffic cop
blowing his whistle-warnings
sharp sharp and loud.

As they passed the train station
two girls in navy uniforms
laughed joyfully.
Commuters turned.
Eyes wide,
one girl covered her mouth.
The other wore a mask.

A boy with grey trousers
and sneakers
and four inches
of white socks in between
raced by,
a blue bag slung over
one shoulder like
a burden.

A young mother emerged
from the back seat
of a white car,
a baby tied to her chest
with fuchsia pink strings.
The infant touched
her mother’s face
as they raced across
the street.

A thin foreign boy
with blonde hair
and a beige leather jacket
danced to the secret rhythms
of his headphones.
Danced right into the station.

We weathered another storm.

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