are damp and puddled from overnight rain,
lined with trees and coffee shops
glowing from the dark corners of morning,
decorated with yellow and blue lightbulbs
hung like a tiny county fair,
green, wood frames holding the glass in place,
a home amidst the high-rises,
bigger on the inside than seems possible from out,
How does it do that?
Hours emerge from minutes
like stripping back a Russian doll.
Time slows down for Jo’s,
and I, for one, could use some slow.