To the Point
A fixed point in space
from which infinite possibilities
emanate in
infinite directions,
a mark from which a line can grow.
A meeting point,
a crowded restaurant on a slope,
yellow booth after booth in two parallel rows,
a woman pulls my sleeve, asking where I got my bag, my shoes.
I shrug,
I don't recall.
A point at the end of a line, a stop
a menu board on the wall,
plastic letters listing daily specials.
The falafel here is good,
I am told.
A line from a point, a ray
of sun, a bright westward sidewalk
lined with varicose veins of cracked concrete,
unwanted plants poking through
wind-strewn remnants of relocated soil,
a road.
A fixed point, a line
a path to my childhood home,
white and red brick buildings rising up
behind pastel Easter egg cars of
a steel amusement park ride cutting through the sky,
an obscured view.
A point of infinite possibility, a line
spoken low
words burrowing into minds,
a hum that cannot be shaken.
Author: Rebecca M Ross
Photo: Photo by Pedro Vit on Unsplash
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