Seventh Street

The hat store across the street never gets any new hats. There is a man with one leg who waits outside of the pizza shop. He's tired of pizza, he says. I wonder if my feet make imprints in the sidewalk, if the tattoo parlors and Ukrainian restaurants are peaceful neighbors, if it's possible to snow in October. I would chalk my name in the street but the cars never stop coming. And the traffic light. It' running through the motions as my fig tree watches from the window. I sit next to it and do the same.