on the n-judah inbound (tableaux from a solitary weekend, 3 of 3)

Gazing through the window of the light rail car as we clickety-clack along the rails on Judah and Irving streets, I spy:

a little girl in a stroller, daddy walking behind her. they are wearing almost-matching hoodies. daddy's has horizontal stripes in turquoise and charcoal grey; the stripes on baby's are turquoise and white.

a black and white cat sitting on a windowsill, calmly licking its paws.

on a building face: surreal you hair design.

on a garage door: sortie de voitures / défense de stationner.

The car filled up at the last stop; now my eyes are entertained by the sights on this side of the window, and my thoughts turn to what my eyes cannot see.

What is in your little Wishbone shopping bag, woman with large rocks on your finger and consternation on your face?

What did you pack in your backpack today, earbud-wearing young man leaning on the doors?

And you, old man with a cottony white Santa-Claus beard, what do you carry in the pockets of your cargo shorts?

Perhaps those packages hide nothing very interesting, anyway. It is the baggage that we keep bundled up inside ourselves that makes us who we are, that alternately makes us suffer and allows us to experience joy, that colors our thoughts and informs our actions, that motivates our desires and, sometimes, is revealed when we share our love one with another.

So, what are your feet dragging along with them inside those chocolate-brown canvas shoes that you have tied up so tight?

What makes your feet bounce when you walk?

Why do you dance?

How do you dance?