polaroids

I'm working again in the inner city, and as I adjust, life is a still rush of images that wash to clarity in passing, like polaroids.

A young woman curled cross-legged beneath the Remand Centre, her eyes tapping Morse code up at her man, hands flashing over the blue heart chalked on the pavement.

An empty prescription bottle and two syringes left on a windowsill after the long weekend.

Last-minute calls from an election campaigner and a police chief, both aiming to volunteer for a media-covered holiday meal.

A quietly radiant teen volunteer, hair tucked back and falling loose as she tops coffee cups.

Citrus tea in styrofoam: prayer with a guy just off night shift at the men's shelter, and not so long off the street himself.

The man under the neon pink blanket outside the front door; his cracked-white vinyl shoes, his gentle smile.

A gift of small ivy in my window, from a co-worker generous too with her sense of humour, and wisdom.

It's good to be back.