Quatrains for Lark Street

I pay for a cup of rooibos
but get a seat on the street,
and see what comes into
my circle of light.

About three measures
of one-drop reggae,
as a car pauses briefly
in the street.

High heel clicks, measured time,
a working man’s loping gait,
a couple’s angry steps
in a broken rhythm.

Brave weeds, up through
a sidewalk’s crack, spiky
and barbed, like
a tribal tattoo.

Lights, motion all around—
yet someone gazes into
a tiny, pale screen like it’s
some kind of oracle.

Two women at a high table,
outside a bar. Voices
lost in traffic sounds--
gestures speak louder.

A clink of a cup—someone
sits close, and my muse
decides to quiet,
for a moment.

Two at another table—
her hand on his calf, and
I feel suddenly
too present.

Drumbeat motorcycle,
cicada whir of a bike chain,
tires slow to a whisper,
a handful of words.

Traffic, laughter, footsteps,
wind in the trees, occasionally
all pause--the silence
in great music.