A Walk

By: Rachel Stander

Yesterday, I took a walk.
I went through the park,
I passed by one empty cup,
two used napkins,
three cigarette butts.
I jaywalked across the street,
past the hardware store
and into the coffee shop.
I ordered a small latte,
handed the pretty barista a five-dollar bill
and stuffed the change in my pocket.

Tomorrow, I’ll take another walk.
I’ll go through the park,
I’ll pick up one empty cup,
two used napkins,
three cigarette butts,
and I’ll throw them in the trash can
or recycling bin permitting.
I’ll cross the street at the crosswalk
and find somewhere to wash my hands.
I’ll pass the hardware store,
where I’ll wave to the owner’s son,
who’ll be repainting their logo on the window,
and I’ll go into the coffee shop.
I’ll order a large latte,
hand the pretty barista a ten-dollar bill
and set the change in the tip jar.
I’ll ask her how her day is going
and if she’s busy after work,
I’ll take her out
and one day fall in love with her.

But today I’ll lay around,
I’ll look out the window,
the one next to my bed.
I’ll watch the litter sit,
polluting and ugly.
I’ll think of all the people
I will not impress
and all the money I don’t possess
and my mind will spin.
Tonight, I’ll dream of happiness
and tomorrow, I’ll take a walk.