This Morning

This Morning

        By Ann Heyse

I am in line with

a red-coated, dark-skinned beauty,

my bank-president neighbor in an expensive silk suit (probably acquired on his latest trip to China)

the young, orange-pants clad artist, probably here for  his first time,

the family that has made it an event: stroller plus three kids, complete with donuts,

and of course, the nearly 120 others who are here in the early hours as it just grows light.

I chat with my teacher friend who lives just three streets over;

we are listened to by her pastor husband,

a tuck-pointer filling up on coffee for a long day laboring in the cold,

a tired, cranky grandmother ( her sweatshirt said so) 

and a strong, hunky man in a motorcycle jacket (I wonder if he came that way, on motorcycle.)

And there was Patricia who talked back to the security guard when she was told she couldn’t bring in Ella, her dog.  “No,” Patricia said, “this is a service dog in training, so she’s allowed.” 
(I know better; Ella’s not in training; Patricia just wants to bring in her dog.)

In the quiet of this morning

In this calm crowd of unabashed democracy,

I am channeling Walt Whitman

as I think so warmly and so gratefully of this

beautiful line

full of people

that are me and not me.