The press of hot bodies
parts like a dead sea.
1:30 on the dot,
and I step out of California Pizza Kitchen
and step in the crisp Jersey air.
I whistle as I walk along,
my eyes scanning over
frozen silhouettes swaddled in
spindles of threads
crafted by hurried, child-like hands.
A leggy blonde
with a Covergirl smile
struts down a crowded runway,
slicing through the mundane
armored in twirling skirts.
I pause to purchase a mango smoothie
from a boy with a fitted navy cap.
I hand him a crisp green five
and he returns my change honestly.
I am in the Caribbean with each
sip–shoppers rushing in like waves,
chandeliers swaying like palm trees
in a gentle breeze.
The bottom of my solo cup,
a reminder that my time is too short.
A smile on my lips
as I pass by the golden doors at 2:00.
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 