- 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 upto 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—
- 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
- So we 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”