Yellow Shoes

He sees me walking in the morning, he thinks

I look happy.

Marine layer spreads across Muirlands like fleece.

I hike up Nautilus Street

and he drives to have coffee with his tío.

Most mornings I walk up Nautilus, just after dawn and before the world gets going.

The morning is cool, and November smells different here than it does in New York.

Sea mist rests on windshields and illuminates spiderwebs stretched between bushes.

Hummingbirds buzz in an orchestra conducted by morning light.

What do they do in the dark?

I picture them tucking their wings into beds with pinstripe sheets,

lofted high in feathery trees. 

I wonder. 

His tío invites him for coffee every day,

and he goes on Fridays.

When he arrives, the pot is already brewed.

Tío’s been waiting all week for his company.

They sip and take bites of café tostadas spread with plump California avocado.

I come up in conversation, but I don’t know if you use my name or not

when you speak of me. I’m still so new to you.

I wonder.

When he tells me he thinks he saw me in the morning,

he asks if I wear yellow shoes when I walk,

and I say, “Yes, I do.”

“It was definitely you.”

He says he wanted to honk,

but I looked so happy

and didn’t want to scare me.

But he pulled to the side of the road and watched me

as I walked up Nautilus.

It’s a funny thing being observed,

unaware.

Or being on someone’s mind

while they walk up Nautilus

everyday.

November 2023