doppler

because there's something about yellow ochre trees exploding into gray sky
and the way that november can still feel soft, even in the face of everything

pedaling so fast that the wave of air breaking on my face feels like water,
I hear snatches of talk and laughter from the sidewalk, fragmented words

an image shattered and flattened into a chronology of street time -- 
old man, loud dog, singing child, anxious man in dark colors, basketball taps

a woman with cheekbones like warrior shields waits for a red light to turn
and two lovers laugh at a empty bag; the timer changes, cars rev, exhaust lingers

fresh pavement almost whispers under my tires and I attempt the very specific art
of not remembering


november 2015, copyright sarah hirsch