Hard concrete cold, shore of an asphalt sea,
Pavonia Summit Central, sitting dumb,
Colorless, squinting, cutting, slow,
Among the wrecks of stone as others drift,
Consuming suited people, shitting bricks on bums.
Now, stumbling, old, a tiny woman’s tiny steps,
“It’s gorgeous out” she says and looks and means it,
Moving past and driving me away.
Then change of light and movement on the black,
On oily tension, road and steel and stone.
I ponder differentials, equations,
The echo in the empty space inside each piece of all,
Ah, how I fear this crossing over liquid shell,
And how I fear.
“If they can do it, you can”,
– the candy wrapper at my feet,
When I have gone and sunk below
A wind will pick it up and bring it home.
JC, 8.4.8