Didn’t know it until 26-hard-walked blocks, 79-no-breeze
degrees later. My 1st hair appointment in 16 months
cut short by gray, rolling gate—the solid type guarding
Delilah’s Salon, the Greek oasis I sought, shuttered.  

Reached for phone. Not there. No phone to check
for a text about delay or to call to ask what’s up?
No phone to call for help if I became prey to humans
or to cancer dizzied-recovery exacting demands.  

I sought shade in street lamp’s thin shadow, trembled,
exposed. Angled radiated, sun-sensitive skin to shadowed
safe space, sipped water, and pondered options.
I was her 1st appointment, in a city where traffic snarls.  

Waiting seemed fair. I quit panhandling time when folks hurried
by this long-haired, southern-displaced voice calling softly, gently.
The sun bore hard heat, no earth to absorb and buffer. No phone
to check emails, texts, or to play dominoes opened me to a true,   

still way to discover where I landed. Delilah’s Salon and Rice & Beans,
Latino/Hispanic local eatery, formed the 1st floor of a single 5-story-
walkup, red-bricked façade bookended by vacant lots—both fenced,
one red, the other white, invited graffiti’s light and color signatures:  

black tags—no overlapping disrespect and one throw-up bubble-style
spoke bold its author’s name. Grass tufts stubbled the ground
like an old man who forget that shaving mattered.
Rigger Waterproofing advertised between 2 sets of windows—faces  

with lots of stories behind broken blinds, mis-matched curtains,
window gates to keep babies from falling unlike my cousin who died
a year before I was born. One item Rigger advertised intrigued:
brick pointing. Set me to wondering what bricks point out…