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”