She and I — neighbors now of many
years — find ourselves on the corner in
uncomfortable 11:30 sun.
Waiting for the light,
we agree about the heat, the humidity, which
can only get worse before it gets better, so
we hope it will change.
We deftly avoid
danger — sidestepping cyclists on the pavement,
not mentioning other things we hate.
In her case,
people of color; in my case, her.
Neither of us
thinks things will get better, but, perhaps in secret,
we both pray they won’t get worse.