when your phone dies in the middle of a run,
you stumble upon a farmers market
and buy a peach.
you witness two roommates lug a second hand table
through the crowd and hear an elderly man whisper to his wife
“let’s get out of this sea of humanity”
a child begs for an overpriced ice pop and
a vendor hands you a glass of water, free of charge,
because you really look like you could use it.
you eavesdrop about a woman’s baby shower
and friendship breakups and a really aggravating boss.
you find a bus stop but forgot your route
and never really learned how to use a map anyways,
so you ask the dad with the stroller which way to Georgetown.
he teaches you how to read the schedule like he is practicing for the day
his child is old enough to understand maps and farmers markets and bad bosses
and the bus comes and you wave goodbye to the dad and the kid and the driver waves you on,
even as you explain your payment is located on your dead phone.
so you sit down and stare at the cute guy next to you read Catch 22
and out the window for a trace of familiarity.
you spot that ice cream place with all those autographs and presidents and pull the yellow cord
and hop out at the same time as your seatmate.
you wish you were a little less sweaty and flushed
because he reads and has kind eyes and maybe he lives around here
but soon enough you see that pink sandwich shop that signals you’re on your block,
so you turn towards home and away from the bus and the nice boy and you punch in your code,
greeted by your roommate wondering where you had been and whether she should wear the skirt
or the dress and what time you were cooking dinner.
and as you chop up onions with your roommate and
your phone is rightfully placed in the charger,
you decide that when you are old and wrinkled and gray,
with the money and time
to get your produce at the local farmers market,
you won’t mind
this sea of humanity.