cross

A lunch box dangles from a man’s hand, waiting to cross the street at the
intersection of Dean Keeton and Robert Dedman, going to law school.

When the light turns, we start across. I count the lanes:
2 west, 2 east, 1 for turning. Bike lanes on both sides, back-angle parking.

In class, I draw the cross-section, imagining renovations and repairs.
18-foot sidewalks, timed lights.

Streets and intersections: I can know these. I can cross them over and over
Unlike some bridges. I measure lane widths.

Meagan says I am a slightly dampened version of myself.
I am cross and flustered. I redesign roads while my emotions lie cluttered.

An undergraduate in sweatpants walks past, carrying a lacrosse stick.
Its netting is stiff like his expression and my lately limber mind.

I loved someone who didn’t love me. That’s all it is.
It is like being stuck at an intersection, unable to cross.

I watch the red pedestrian signal, feel the cars plummet past,
north, south, west, east, I cross myself.