Falling

Your foot snags on the corner of a bumper.

The tiled floor of the grocery is many
shades of dirty gray. 

Your instinct is to shield your face,
your head.

Minutes before, the woman at the cash register 
says have a nice day and looks like she means it.

Just an hour before, you are mistaken
for someone else.

Wind whips the edges of the tarp loose.
The sound it makes, like flapping wings.

Cold air snags in your throat
on the way in.

Noon light is visible when you turn 
your gaze to the left.

Your knees compose the retort you 
should have made.