WALK AROUND THE BLOCK
I think, sometimes, that this is where I'm supposed to be. You know, in a neighborhood with white picket fences, yellow front doors, and lush ivy. My eyes search for the quainter aspects of this historic district--for porch swings, for cats without collars. Curious as a kitten, they say, curious as a kitten. And, really, I have to agree with them, because I am that girl--the quizzical one, the explorative one, the one who doesn't hesitate to take a shortcut through the alley. I'm looking for familiarity, I say. Every day, I try to dirty my jeans with the air and the dust and the people of the city. I wish there was time to explore everything. And I wish I were a bird--a fleeting creature who takes the updraft to the forty-eighth floor of the Chase Tower. Who, hidden in small niches, shields herself from sudden summer storms. And who watches, with a curious eye, as neighbors wave to each other, walk their dogs, mow their lawns, and tend to their cozy bungalows. You know, the homes that are painted purple or teal and whose yards smell of lilacs and honeysuckle. It's like what you see in movies, like what you hear about in happily-ever-afters. Oh, those picket fences. Oh, the dirt on my shoes on this walk, on this walk through Holy Rosary.