Old hat

The city is cold this morning, 61 degrees, windy and cold. The strange thing about the desert is when the sun isn’t around, even though it’s 61 degrees, it gets bone-chilling. The ground is a solar blanket.

A homeless man picks through a trash can. I think about offering him my banana and pull it out, but somewhere between my counter and the journey to work, it’s become an abstract brown and yellow painting in my bag. I put it back, walk away watching him pull documents instead of food like he’s puzzling together a saucy scandal. Someone left their shoes by a bus stop on Van Buren. It reminds me of those jokes people say when someone is wearing camo – HEY I CAN’T SEE YOUR LEGS?! WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE DID YOU GO? I CAN’T SEE YOU AT ALL? Where is the body to these shoes? I can’t see him. The streets are becoming old hats, too. They’re familiar now, not shiny and new. I realize I’m wearing two things you bought me over the years. When will they fully be mine – not reminders of you?