Tuesday morning.

late at 8:42 a.m., past neon construction workers watching my dress

someone shouts over the jackhammer, all I hear is “baby” but I ignore them

smiling at my phone because you sent another adorable text

shortcut through the projects, my forgotten purse on the kitchen counter

naked and abandoned baby doll smudged with grime

the child probably lost sleep and there she lies, alone by the dumpster

past the men smoking cigarettes while speaking french creole

I begin to walk into the street and glance up at the line of pigeons

there’s a slight chance they will shit on me just as I pass

so I hustle past the edge of the building, tipping my sunglasses onto my head

past the boys in the entry way who pretend that I’m not there

all staring at their smart phones, into the building, then the mollifying

good morning, good morning, how are you today, m’am

fine, thank you, and you, and sometimes I’d prefer to be fucking invisible

© 8.23.2016 heather brager