I’m walking down the street
People doing their peopley things
Everyone so different, yet not.
Everyone with their own song to sing.
Those in stalled traffic gaze
at those of us sidewalk-dashing by.
I’ve even seen Patti Smith
staring up at the Redondo sky.
Model airplane guys,
on cliff sides with remotes.
They swoop their crafts at passers-by
and tourists in too thick coats.
One lady passes,
makes me smile with her breeze,
for she smelled like pancakes;
I became weak in the knees.