Seventeen minutes ago, I was in love

  with     the cashier   and a cinnamon pull-apart,

seven minutes  before that, it was    a gray-

   haired man    in argyle socks,     a woman

 dancing outside the bakery    holding

  a cigarette and   broken umbrella.      The rain,

I've fallen in love with it    many times,

 the fog, the frost—how it  covers the clovers

—and by clovers  I mean    lovers.

     And now I'm thinking how much I want    to rush up

 to the stranger in the    plaid wool hat

and tell him how much I love     his eyes,

all   those fireworks, every seventeen minutes,    exploding

   in my head—  you the baker,     you the novelist,

 you the reader,    you the homeless man  on the corner

with the strong hands—I've   thought about you.     But

in this world    we've been taught to keep

  our emotions     tight,     a rubberband ball we worry

if one band loosens, the others will begin    shooting off

in    so    many    directions.       So we quiet.

   I quiet.      I eat my cinnamon bread

 in the bakery    watching the old man still sitting

at his     table, moving his   napkin as he drinks

his small   cup of coffee,    and I never say,

     I think you're beautiful,    except in my head,

           except I decide I can't

  live this way, and    walk over to him and

place my hand    on his shoulder,     lean in close

   and whisper,       I love your argyle socks,

  and he grabs my hand,

    the way   a memory    holds tight  in the smallest

corner.     He smiles and says,

                                                    I always hope someone will notice.

— Kelli Russell Agodon, “Love Waltz with Fireworks”