Clothes pins clip the scruff of your neck shut, two loose flaps, pinched tightly, your skin itches, breathing becomes an exercise (in tolerance) urging you to propel yourself
into traffic, just to see what happens next. Cars stop. Horns beep. Your feet find the curb.
How is it that your legs keep this motion? Left, right, left.
Tramping sidewalks, chafe of thigh across thigh. Left, right, left.
You are blank; dulled nearly a week. Empty as the wind, but this your persistent movement, fluidity of hip, a rhythm, a rhythm, left, right, left. Walking is your only constant. Left, right, left.
That, and your embarrassment for the poet, who says he writes because he has to, because it’s like breathing for him. But you have always felt
ill-at-ease, in the presence of fools.
You find the bridge where you left it, spanning with spiders and dancing a river, iron limbs welded with web, a gummy lacework, caught in your fingers.
Fat spiders scatter
Silly as the poet: belching his every thought.
The park is a wasteland, littered with homelessness; a muggy apathy of flesh and flies. A shoeless man, sitting atop a picnic table, red baseball cap, soiled dress shirt, sings softly to himself.
“Froggie went a courtin’, and he did ride, uh-huh, uh-huh
Froggie went a courtin’, and he did ride.
With a sword and a pistol by his side, uh-huh…”
The grass slips its long, wet fingers, greenly into your Mary Jane’s. Left, right, left.