Sparks

 It’s like this:
You go numb into your silent lunch hours
Into the chill doom of daylight
Are swept street­less down to city libraries
Walk out with China Mieville novels
And Duke Elling­ton and urban fairytales
Trying to warm your hands and heart
By the heat of salsa and jazz and flamenco.
On the way back, slid­ing off the world,
You see the patch­work kid and the laugh­ing morrigan
Leap lightly off the tram you are on,
Dis­ap­pear into the crowd, unaware, observed.
They do not see you. Fleet­ing intersections,
Tra­ject­or­ies. We are only ever moments to each other.
We glide off each others’ sur­faces and veer away.
A thou­sand sparks.