When I cross the road
I feel like the world is staring at me:
the Porsche, a metallic silver
the Honda Civic, once white now covered
by dust and smoke
from the last California wildfire.
Smoke travels far.
Reaches the edge of the earth.
The crosswalk is the length of time
between heartbeats:
dangerously long, you could untangle earbud wires
before the next thump,
the heart of someone’s starving body
trying to get to the other side.
The pedestrian light flashes yellow when
I reach the sidewalk
and the Porsche roars behind me
like I exit the stage
and conduct the world back to life.
Lucy Zhang 