by Rachel Jennings

Waiting in traffic on Frio Street
near El Pico de Gallo restaurant,
I was three cars back, so I couldn't see
who crossed on red or failed to look--
just heard the pedestrian's primal
scream, timeless and guttural,
a woman's wordless grito
without so much
as an "Ay!" or an "Oh!", and
though (I think) she wasn't dead,
I recalled at once the English lord
who didn't notice that the light
had changed, which brought
to mind Omar Sharif
on the Moscow trolley, clutching
his swollen heart. And I knew that each
of us lives alone, sadly alone, even here
in San Anto.

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