Sunday on Grace Street

A single gold shoe in front of the dance club Xscape surrounded by debris from last night's carousing.

Wasn't it kind of chilly last night not to notice one foot hitting bare pavement?

Further on, in front of the VCU Library annex, three guys smile and say good morning.

One says, "You're out here walking again," and as I pass by him, I remind him I walk every day.

From behind, I hear, "And it's working for you, baby! It surely ee-is. Mmm, mmm."

Up ahead at the Lutheran church on the corner, the congregants are out in front clutching palm fronds and listening to the grand poohbah read.

One girl is visibly shivering in a sleeveless dress, her hair still wet from the shower and bare-legged with just sandals on.

A guy in a suit at the back gives me a mischievous grin and points at himself, points at me and then points down Grace Street in the direction I'm walking.

Is he suggesting he'll abandon god and the flock and take off with a stranger? I don't even want to know.

I see a "For Sale" sign where the agent's name, George Cummings, had been altered by some juvenile-minded wit bracketing off [CUM].

I'm going to go with my gut here and guess the perp was a male not yet old enough to drink. And probably not getting laid, either.

Coming back toward the Ward on Grace, a guy gets out of his car carrying a Sunday paper and striding purposely toward the Village.

Clearly he is bent on breakfast and paper-reading. As we reach the restaurant, we both see the big cardboard sign over their specials board that says "NO POWER. Sorry for the inconvenience"

The guy looks at me and I say, "That'll stop you in your tracks. Now what?"

Before he can answer me, another guy lounging against the Village's window looks up and nonchalantly says, "They still got beer."

 It is 10:15.

On Grace Street, you see, breakfast is in the eye of the beholder.