Biking down Laurel Avenue at ten o'clock,
I see a woman sitting on a dark porch
propped up by two-by-fours.
At the dance studio on Snelling, with the big glass windows,
it is late, and the woman instructor stands
under a light bulb, weight on one leg.
At the store I open a door and a young girl
explodes into me, laughing.
The air is still, if you listen you can hear
the murmurs of people out walking.
Someone's been cutting the grass in the yard
of the old man across the street, who has died.