Shortcuts

sir

Years gone by.

Not as lean.

Short cropped hair — history.

No chef’s coat

Hanging off my frame.

No. An old lady in a

Girlie, startlingly pink sweatshirt

Flowing orange silk scarf

Shoulder length white hair.

Still, in one week

I hear, “Sir,” twice.

From the gate agent.

From the building guard

Who wants my bicycle

Parked elsewhere.

The mind

Takes shortcuts.

I’m tall.

For me

A mild annoyance

Corrected quickly

When I speak.

For the brown face

In a hoodie

It can mean much more.

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