Old pavement pulls the street through years
Times of sand tossing curly haired kids
In dried grass: the habit of neglected August,
Swallowing all of late winter’s craving
Into dusty, cob-webbed corners,
Missed by heaven, skipped by hell –
Once sharp places, long gone stale.
Pale skies cast through wrinkled gauze,
Illumed with worried skin,
Pallor of a re-ran TV set,
Where smoke lingers,
Coffee goes warm, then sour
And a chorus of days hangs in the hour.
Tattered screen, leaning fence –
That hard line parting the space of time
From the washed light in a dusty corner,
Speaking truth, three doors down,
Along a street, at the edge of town.