Walking down the street, between
crosswalk lines,
and faded brick buildings.
Solitary. Satisfied.
Walking lightly. Innocently.

Hey, Beautiful.
Got a minute?

Walking down the street
faster, quick steps
powered by fear.
Fear of what?
Of people,
Of speaking.
Don't talk to strangers
moms
dads
teachers say

How about
don't talk to anybody

Anxiety is the driver
and the doors are locked
from the inside
but I have
no key. Passenger,
trying to break free
slowly breaking free
slowly breaking open through the fear
the fear of judgment, embarrassment.

Nearly adult but not nearly free
the windows cracked are open
but I am still
buckled in.

So, no,
I do not have a minute.