On the scorched Queen's sidewalk
I pass seemingly aimless people like myself
I am wearing shorts and leather sandals
They wear backpacks and pants
Flannel shirts and earrings
Sneakers and baseball caps

They all seem to have a destination
But I'd like to think that they don't
That none of us do
We are all Wednesday's mid-morning nomads
Looking for
A dollar for our empty hands
A bench in the shade
A place to rest our bags and shoulders
A place to remove our caps and wipe our foreheads
Complaining of wandering in the heat