I see the brick walls,
I feel the mist,
I smell the rubber the gasoline and the morning-
I notice this place.
The sky is a slight blue before me
and a light pink behind.
Orange leaves litter the ground
between scattered stones and shards of plastic-
usually red-
and it is just bright enough to hurt the
just waking eye,
but dull enough to make everything blurry.
Chances are you would pass the crack in
the sidewalk-
no consequence, no thought-
and continue on your path.
But I see spare change perhaps,
or tattered paper,
once I am lucky enough to see it all-
the world through that tiny crack in the pavement.
I hear all footsteps,
except my own,
for they say you cannot hear the shuffle of the dead,
and I sigh, somewhat weary
all ready of the day ahead.
The cold makes me feel strong
as it presses against my cheeks,
and there is nothing better than feeling the
draft of someone who has just come from somewhere else
for you cannot help but wonder-
where have the ventured?
How far, how long?
Sometimes the draft is a welcome breath
sometimes a forbidden chill,
but I will always bring it with me
just to prove to you,
you still feel...
