-Bedford bagatelle-

1.
one moment a straining

Autocar diesel lumbers by

smoking from its stack

down-shifting
approaching from the east
in the down-hill struggle
of the great rigs inhaling against
the laws of dynamics,
westward towards the river

and the connection to Interstate 95,
with the park, the church,
a couple of italian bakeries and the fierce
community of the Portuguese passing along the way.

the big-rig's driver
lives someplace else, someplace down south,
probably North Carolina.

at the same instant a young woman

passing by the observational window,
walking against the grain of the neighborhood,

seems to know her way because most-likely
she lives around here.

(maybe someplace hidden deeply behind the church,
I'd guess North Quarry near the cemetery)

she's wearing a summer dress with brightly colored patterns of..

well, I can't really say.

I don't recognize her.

the big-rig struggles westward

with a powerful back-thrust

probably heading northward to the Border City Mills

where shipments of textiles, strapped on pallets

will be unloaded on the docks.

maybe a few relatives will manage the unloading

of the pallets, working for their tenements

and their cars, and stockpiling a few bucks

for the rainy days.

meanwhile the singular summer dress flutters

(rayon, I'm assuming) in its wake and I'm struck

in the instance of the dichotomy between power and grace
within the same frame of reference.

2.
employing the upgraded
Bedford Street Applause Meter
we notice the needle drifting to 85 for the powerful
Autocar diesel,

but sweeping to 98

for the lovely young woman
walking by in her summer dress, and

it was predicted that somewhere

within the body of this afternoon's bagatelle,
both will come to find their way to me.