Excuse Me, You Dropped This

It happens in the jittery

rush of morning, coffee

in hand, the rapid hustle

through subway doors, or

the casual spill of papers

on a crowded street, where

the objects of our small lives

glint for a moment as they

claim their unexpected

freedom. I am standing

there, watching the dance

of wallets, keys, and receipts

tumble from hands unaware.

Excuse me, you dropped this,

I say, bending to retrieve

a fragment of someone's

busy life. The act so simple,

like offering a bridge back

to the stream of one's

purpose, as if to say,

in this hasty world, where

items fall and scatter, we

can still pause to anchor

each other, piece by lost

piece. And in that fleeting,

genuine instant, the street

seems a little less about

our solitary scrambling and

more about the language

of small restorations, the way

a shared moment can turn

ordinary asphalt into poetry.