an umbrella on a sunny day

An Umbrella On a Sunny Day
by chelsey storey
We cross paths away from one another on the concrete stairs. We use zigzags, interchangeably, to roll joints. Her kneecap joints creak as the bicycle pedals pump fluidly against her feet, rise and fall, up and down. She asks her brother on the phone, “Wait did you bring an umbrella?”  The sun waves through an overhanging tree. The leaves fall on top of each other, like lovers. The holes in the hard sidewalk, where rocks once lived, hold the dirt gently, as a child. A breeze slides across my shaven calf skin and rises diagonally to another leg, as if it were climbing stairs. A few paces away the overhanging bush leaves are forming a wave to rejoice a snotty tissue tossing and turning against the concrete. Overcoming heroine addiction is a hard thing to do, I hear. If I were God, a gentle breeze would be glittering golden, rather than translucent.  An ant crawls across my toes, nips at them, and then leaves. Do ants know they are biting your foot or do they also bite at the concrete? Is it body warmth that attracts their biting? Are we only attracted to the warmth a body holds?

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