Street Aria

Lisa Romano Licht

Your gold hoop earrings glint
in the sun’s glare, rival
your ebony hair, shiny
seal’s cap coiling
into a long ponytail.

A street-long snake of cars
intersection six lanes wide,
and you waiting
for the light to change.

I drive, inching forward,
stop where you stand.
Cars crawl by
white noise of the city:
No one is listening.

You pose, defiant,
body captive in tight jeans,
young curves suffocating.
A cigarette, your accessory.

With a glint
your knowing eyes
challenge all that pass;
impatient,
you shift your knapsack.

The light changes.
You strut uphill
toward the bus stop, surprisingly
graceful in platform shoes.

Suddenly, mid-street,
you sing.
Your clear, honeyed voice
rings out,
uplifting as a flock of birds gliding
over the sea of cars.

Melodious waves unbalance me,
so unexpected.
Like the stark sunlight, a cappella
so raw and sweet
it hurts.

I surrender, willing prisoner
of your voice,
spiral of joy
rising
until the light must change.