D.K. SHEPARD

Adopted by my city’s busy streets

A mixing of deep roots and refugees

And those of us from somewhere in between

I wonder if other people can see

I’m a bit out of place and not at ease

Some sort of intruder, an imposter

I’m not a devotee but a dabbler

A dozen of us are gathered around,

more than a few with leaden chins resting

on the knobbed ridges of our closed fist mounds,

With the best broken pieces he could find

He placed each colored shard just as designed

Garden of stone, but critics were cruel:

“Where’s the symmetry? It’s all misaligned!”

One Thursday I choose to walk home from work,

leaving my lab in Anlyan’s north wing

foregoing the Yale Shuttles on Orange Line

On Monday afternoon, fifth period

Diana asks, “Can I have a band-aid?’

In the desk drawer among the myriad

Of pens, post-its, and paper clips arrayed,

The seconds snuck by without notice, now

Tonight, millions of voices sound as one