Sixty Stories Wet Cement
This is the story at the crosswalk: the cars drive right up on my shoes.
These days bad days are common. The city is changing.
A jackhammer bounces off the walls and bounces back to me in stereo.
The sidewalk is fresh, the cement shines.
I write your name next to mine.
Bridges take years to build but they begin to fall apart with a few days of heavy traffic.
I like tall buildings, but it's disconcerting when they grow up in groups, dies in the centre.
The sidewalk is fresh, the cement shines.
I write your name next to mine.
The city strikes. The garbage lines up.
Bags bloat all night, bloom when the sun comes up.
I make a fist and punch the crosswalk pole--the cars stop.
I reach the sidewalk with an expected sense of relief from dodging cars and kicking cartons.
I have faith in some things, like the constant ringing in my ears,
Still, I think good days are coming.
The city is changing, the cement shines.
I write your name next to mine.
