Anyone in Burlington

While walking through Burlington, 
I imagine myself as anyone. 

I could be a single mother pushing
a stroller with one hand, 
headed toward Lake Champlain
to find at least some solace
in the way the thin veil of light
hopscotches off the water. 

I could be an old pianist, fingers
long-tired from lightly moving across
the keys, ears perked relentlessly, 
searching absent-mindedly 
for melodies in the wind
and overheard conversations. 

I could be a college student, 
exploring the new city I call home, 
ignoring my sudden-onset insomnia 
and the rows of missed phone calls
from Mom. 

Or I could be just another teenager, 
confidently placing each foot in front 
of the other, chattering to a friend about
how my driving lessons are going. 
("You know, it's not even that bad. If I had
to describe it, I'd say mild road rage. 
But it really could be worse.")

Or, in some alternate world, I could be
all of those people at once. 
Standing at a rusty payphone, 
clutching the hand of a toddler, 
listening to the clicks of the machine accepting 
my quarters and thinking of a metronome, 
blinking back the forever-weariness from my eyes, 
and telling my friend that, if they can, 
they should come to Burlington sometime.