I remember that hour—nearly half my lifespan

ago. Toasted sesame and rice balls caught

onto charcoal cobblestone as flocks

of uniformed students, businessmen, and

grannies after their morning tai chi

briskly walked past each other.  

And then, flash forward a few years to another city

in another hour. It was a stark midday when I ducked down

a dingy staircase. Above, fluorescent lights burned in a fizz—

the edge between shadow and light a clear mark.

Metal clanged, and air rushed.

An automated voice announced arrivals on the overhead, and

cramped compartments filled with the nameless

smeared past, plexiglass windows adding

an extra layer of gaudy glare.

Or, how could I forget that hour last winter,

when the air frosted our breaths and the sky

pooled a clear deep indigo speckled with glitter?

All the world a delicate blue robin’s egg,

hanging somewhere in the precipice.

Metallic shopping carts gleaned in the dark, and an

11 pm sprint to kitschy aisles stocked with ramen had  

disgruntled employees brusquely kicking us out.

Then, there are the hours drowning in viscous syrup—

golden ambrosia sticking to a conglomeration of

hazy memories linked only through nostalgia.  

Swarms of gnats buzzing in the air, creaky swing sets bending

more with each passing year, and

the onset of the setting sun heralding

a call home.