On Richmond Avenue

Sharon Larsen

I know she sings,
though I can’t hear her,
for I am in my car
and she walks
along Richmond Avenue,
head back,
mouth open and moving,
arms swinging,
feet in cadence.
Her blouse is faded red,
her jeans torn.
Shoulder-length brown hair
is pulled back
in a low pony tail.
And I think
how fortunate I am
to be stopped at this light,
to see this bit
of unadulterated joy,
to imprint it
so I always remember
that amidst this world
of turmoil and hate,
some still sing
even if nobody hears.