I hear a quick shriek

I hear a quick shriek,

like an abbreviated version

of the beer factory’s

end-of-the-workday steam whistle,

and I try to place its source

in the hustle and bustle

of this downtown intersection

my two year-old daughter

and I are stopped at.

a young woman

in a purple coat

and with a bag hanging

from one shoulder

comes to the end of the

western sidewalk across the street,

turns the corner, and suddenly,

as if she knew it would be there,

she kneels and slams both hands

into the side of a mailbox.

I spend about two seconds

glancing around at the people

poised at the edges

of the four crosswalks,

noting that none are looking

in her direction,

not even the man standing

at the curb a couple feet

in front of the mailbox.

he just keeps staring

straight ahead

at the walk/don’t walk box,

while holding two coffee drinks

in front of his chest,

as if his hands are at

nine and three on a steering wheel.

now the young woman

is on the opposite side

of the mailbox,

crouched in the corner

it makes with the wall

of the men’s clothing store,

curved from ass to crown

away from all of us.

the light changes and I drive on,

this poem ends and you move on―

no, maybe you don’t completely,

maybe you go home and write a poem

that reflects your regret

that you had to silently pass by

my deliberately public

cry for attention.