Saturday afternoon by the Bethesda Fountain, you handed me my lost glove and made a joke about needing a pair for the weather. I laughed, you winked, and we parted ways. If you remember the color, maybe we can return what we lost together.
You played the violin between stops, and your music turned my commute into something magical. I dropped a dollar and a smile, but wish I'd dropped a compliment too. Hoping our paths cross again, musician in yellow sneakers.
You shielded me from the rain with your bright orange umbrella while we waited for the crosswalk. I meant to thank you properly, but the light changed and you disappeared into the crowd. If you see this, coffee is on me next time.
