I am at the crosswalk on Jasper ave and then . . . there are young businessmen in colourful shirts and patterned ties talking loudly about sports; there are elegant older women in pencil skirts and flowing blouses shopping; homeless men in ragged winter coats and broken shoes begging; toned women in their Lululemons running back to the gym; bicycle messengers in their black mud-spattered garb; student’s in blue jeans and t-shirts hanging onto heavy backpacks waiting for the bus; there are the beauticians and hairstylists in their leather leggings, and funky light pink hair having conversations with clients; and there are people who are running home and quickly walking the dog with their husband or wife in tow.
There are also pretty girls with long black hair, heavy makeup, and leather moto jackets who are waitresses at restaurants of good repore; there are CEO’s and their top men in fine suits with pin stripes from Holt Renfrew who are negotiating deals; their are men with New’s boy hats and skinny jeans walking quickly to a retail job selling clothes; there are men in semi-casual khaki’s and a stripped rugby shirts working at cubicles in healthcare; there are firemen in there navy uniforms laughing loudly eating at the Wok Box; there are security guards in grey shirts and ties with a badge looking through a women’s large shopping bag; there all old-women dressed in their warmest down coat, with silver hair, and creased grey eyes looking to make some purchases at the Winners; there are old men sitting in the food court over coffee regailing each other with tales of their lives and of past jobs and children grown up and busy, of grandchildren who visit; there is a blind man led by a black dog in a jewel blue vest, stopping safely at the crosswalk before the cars go by.
Then there was me. An observer of everything, watching everything around me, knowing what they’re all doing. I was there a few days ago crossing the street in heels. Stepping onto a curb before I am pushed by two large men in suits not paying attention to a 5’1″ women. When the car drove over me I didn’t even feel it. I had hit my head on the concrete curb of the street. I was lying there bleeding and the hords stepped around me. They barely flinched when the truck drove over me, as if I was meant to be road-kill.
But I watch them from a tree a wisp of myself. And I wonder if today someone will care about the lonely and the lost, those too short and whose voices are too small to be heard above the noise.
Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF.
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