Connecticut Avenue was
crying for you tonight.
Tears that were gulped
up in gutters, snaked down
sidewalks past chattering
couples sipping mochas
in rain-drenched streeteries,
pretending that this was
just normal, that this was
the way it was supposed
to be, had always been.
Tears that streaked the
windows at the organic
Chinese place where you
charmed the harried staff
slinging soup and spring rolls.
Tears that dripped through
the door at your corner CVS
where kind Michael stopped
counting pills, jabbing arms
when your mile-wide smile
would flash across his counter.
Tears that splashed against
the rubbery wipers of the
L2 now crammed with silent
and brooding passengers
who would never again
hear the plink of your
token as you stepped
into their lives with
stories and sunbeams,
an unexpected U-turn
in their bleary day-to-day.
Tears that felt like they
were gushing through
my veins, spilling into
puddles that reflected
a most-perfect and
radiant moon, a moon
you so adored. I can’t
pretend that this is
normal, that this is
the way it is supposed
to be, had always been.
Susan Miller is an editor and reporter for USA TODAY newspaper. Her poetry has appeared in publications including Common Ground Review, Gemini Magazine, Months to Years, Whimsical Poet, Dillydoun Review, Goats Milk Magazine, Bluebird Word, Under the Bridges of America.
