Somerville, MA

Tap, tap, tap.
I walk down the sidewalk and hear the familiar sound
of my wooden heels as they hit the pavement.
Old boots pulled up over worn in jeans,
another Somerville morning in the books.

Look both ways, headphones in, sun’s out.
I cross the street and the old houses seem to nod at me,
an A.M. “hello.”

Dilapidated from years of wear
but with a charm all their own.
Purple, cream, light blue.
like a field of flowers, yellowed with time.

The fire station’s flags wave happily
and stoplights shine dim as
cars, salty with remnants of winter,
crack windows to welcome in spring.

I pause, left, stroll over stripes
and head toward a local favorite.
At 3 Figs a customer pulls the door open quickly
and I’m greeted by white walls,
cinnamon muffins
and the delicious scent of coffee, freshly brewed.

A front row to people watching,
I order and lean against the wall
sleepily gaze, impatiently waiting
as the clock ticks away toward work.

A cup, a lid, Greek yogurt and a caffeine jolt to-go
I head out the door toward the train.
Passing puppies and pot-holes,
bikers and beat up driveways.
Yoga studios, and a basketball court full of book-bags and
children anticipating school.

Round the corner, a wave of recognition,
I stride forward with Porter in view.
And with hands in my pockets, it hits me. 

I smile. Soak it in.
Another year of a southern girl in a brisk, big city.
Not too shabby. Not too bad.

And then I shake it off.
Cut it out with the sentiment.
There’s no time for smiling in New England.