She could be a ghost or an angel,
shimmering penumbra

beneath the lampposts circling
this neighborhood elementary

school sidewalk, each circuit
a half mile light unto her path,

and mine, the streets precarious
in the early dark, and she is my age

I see as we near each other,
this morning’s grateful weather

a safe greeting as we pass.
The second time, she seems

to pick up where she left off–
“I am as bad as the young ones

walking and texting. Good thing
I know my path; otherwise

I would have fallen.” I do not see
a cell phone in her hand. Could

she mean me, race walking prayers
for my childhood friend, her

tumble down the surprise
staircase in the night?

And how comic if composing
a poem I catch my toe on

a crack in the sidewalk and
down I go falling headfirst

again, and why not laugh
lying at the feet of this woman,

ghost or angel, who offers
to help me up and says,

“I told you so . . . ,”
so I maybe step lightly, aware

she and I carry each, a handful
of repose, the quiet of light

rising from the dark, each circuit
still here, no hurry, lifting our

feet, a soft sound, our communal
prayer, yes, our poem the voice

of two fellow passengers
spinning to earth, laughing.