a poem a day for a year #221

I want to hold your hand
walk through the humid crowd 
to the other side of the street
to a place where we could start over
like a slick city concrete
finding God in your windbreaker
under my broken umbrella
babies in strollers
old people at bus stops
fast walkers
rude talkers
wheelchair rollers
sad women in short skirts
old men hunched at parking meters
they all stare at our catechism
on the corner

Q. What is the point of life?

A. To love you through all of this

our mouths move
open and shut and make promises 
make bets
throw dice in the street
take the #2 bus