The sun is already working
when I step out the door,
already laying its warm hand
on the roofs, the palms,
the backs of tourists drifting
toward the water with nothing
to carry but time.
They move slowly, like people
who have been forgiven.
Flip-flops slap the pavement,
coffee sweats through plastic cups,
someone laughs too loud
because no one is listening.
I walk the other way.
My shirt sticks before the corner,
my shoes know this road too well.
The heat has a memory of me.
It says, You again?
I nod and keep going.
A bus exhales a cloud of sunscreen
and expectation.
A woman adjusts her hat
like the day might bruise her.
A man points at the water
as if discovering it.
I pass them all
with my head full of quiet things —
emails not yet written,
the slow weight of routine,
motion is blurred
Work has taught me how to move
without spectacle,
how to carry a life
that doesn’t ask to be admired.
Still, for a moment,
I feel the island watching —
the road, the light, the small mercy
of a breeze that knows my name.
Then the office door opens,
cool air replaces salt,
and the day becomes what it is:
just time asking to be endured.
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Originally Posted by tailor STATELY
