we are who

by tobias crabtree

and she is wearing tiny leather shoes and she has great big hips and her shorts are very short and she is waiting on the bus while she texts.

and then him, the one with the frown that is digging it’s lines deep. and his shoulders pulled up high and he doesn’t look around…at least not that i can see.

and the girl who is too thin and who wears her rainbow bracelets and who is missing her front tooth and probably smiles less because of it and who has freckles and green eyes.

and who have two small dogs that wander between them as he is walking out in front with shuffling steps and she is shuffling ten steps back. and they are not talking but they are walking toward the ocean and the sun that is setting.

who glances at me and smiles just in time and who walks with strong steps and who’s face is red from the wind and sun and who is not afraid to say hello and does not look for a reason to not say hello.

who does not care that he left his phone behind and who wears a mustache and also wears lines around his 30 something eyes that are used to smiling and who walks like there is music in his head…or his heart, which is the same thing.

who carries a small bag of leftover food in one hand and who’s other hand is useless and shakes from a stroke. and who comes to the coffee shop twice a day and loves to say “beautiful” but is difficult to understand otherwise. and who gives me his leftovers as an offering of friendship and who smiles crookedly and so i smile honestly.

and he is walking quietly with his hands clasped behind him and his eyes are slivers under smooth lids and he seems amused by the world around him (my assumption, of course) and i am a part of his amusement which i decide i like. and then who glances from my feet to my face and who knows i’ve noticed his entireness and who continues on as before and maybe before that.

who looks in the car window and sees his own reflection and who notices changes in the geographies and contours of his person. and who tries not to make judgements about himself too often because they are not quite honest, or maybe intentionally dishonest. who is trying to look beyond popular ideas in order to see things as they are and not as we wish they were. who breathes and drinks water and who worries that he thinks with a narcissistic bent too often, even now as he writes once again about himself, but who would rather think about his feet because they remind him of where he came from and where he is going.