I Want My City to Find Me

Food break at counter one
where plates are set to be scraped
and ready for bus pans,
with unwashed hands,
I dip pita in tzatziki sauce.
How many mouths, hands have I touched
this morning, just by touching napkins-

I watch Elmwood Avenue scuffle
in the salad table glass, feet along
the stubborn smudges where my hand
can never reach with Windex.
The whole city just passes by
these creamers and Greek dressings.

A man with a dozen roses walks
from Mother Nature florist, broad shoulders
softening along the way to his pickup truck.
Tonight, when I untie my soup-caked apron,
a face will blush from flowers
as someone discovers love
but far away.