Photo Credit: Wikimedia Commons

And so maybe this too, is grace. The dirty hair and baseball hat: black mesh, white pointelle fleur de lis. The bathing suit and grimy red flip flops, as homeless men crouch in city sidewalk shade and you round the corner to the block with Neiman Marcus. The moment before when the cyclist pedaling by, the one wearing a rainbow striped sweatband, green milk crate strapped to his bike says: “nice dog.”

The smudge of dog poop on the sidewalk as you pick it up silently, hand swaddled in blue plastic while smiling friends and couples pass by, and you laugh to yourself when you remember your mom saying dogs keep you humble. And you agree the next moment when that dog starts to eat a crumpled paper towel as it tumbles over city concrete,  slow moving steam rising up off the sidewalk with the same echoing endlessness of foggy Sahara Desert heat waves.

The sunscreen stinging your eyes as you cross over red bricks, eye makeup smudging your grease stained cheeks. You read it somewhere once-breathe into your heart space when this happens.

Back of your hand trying to wipe away the sting, while mid-afternoon sun feels hot to your forearms and you remember the cold pizza in your fridge from the night before, and how you still need to buy groceries.