Snaking along route 50 in the dark
sipping on stale coffee
pin pricking headlights slither down
the hill that lifts in front of me--
two by two in the rain
they top the black horizon
and beam back to my retinas
like torch bearers in a tiki ritual
on their way to work, I can only suppose.

Between classes, between buildings,
I follow a wet brick path, clickity-clack,
in shoes two sizes too large,
mother's dress-up heels with a feather pink boa.
And I stare.
Another hill, more faces.
On cell phones, under hoodies, puffing smoke.
I see them meet, exchange greetings, hold finger tips and part.
Some faces smile in secret ways
and I catch the beams from their eyes
like fertility.