Average – walking on
Broadway early
in the morning.

A bus driver passes –
he waves to the
elderly couple – still
wearing shorts,
matching hats,
noses burnt – as
heads nod, sleeping
on a park bench.

Brakes squeal, a
school bus, in
need of repair.

Gentlemen – smile,
grin, grab the end
of a suit jacket,
stretching it
to cover fat bellies.
Younger men
adorned fancy suits,
buttoned – shined
shoes, crisp
white shirts…

A trash man
glares – talking
with his eye’s,
prominent teeth,
wearing a duller
shade of blue…

From a window
workers stare at
the street below,

rub their chin –
hoping their
morning shave
had not missed a
stray hair, or forgot a
dab of toilet paper
stopping skin bled
from a razors edge.

Should you skip
your Dunkin Donut
Coffee or sit and
glare out a dirty
window to watch
a town come alive?
Should you read
the morning news?
The paper you
carried from your
doorstep to a subway
and beneath your
arm on to Broadway.

At noon the park
bench occupied by
workers who want
to soak up some
sun – by those who
carry pen and paper
writing about life.

A man wearing a
hard hat, takes a
bite from his
sandwich – his
tools pull at his
waist – his cell phone
in his pocket…

People scramble –
hurry now.

I scribble all the
features – of a
crowd as they
leave. . .
Bus #10 arrives,
and a man smiles –
waves me on – I
step in front of him –
I wonder if he
understands, what
average is?

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Angie's Diary