On the third day of school someone scribbled on the concrete

that hadn’t been touched in years.
they traced a picture of their feet
and now everytime I pass
those streets
I try to fit my shoe into the marks to see if we are the same.

Overtime, I grow, but we are never the same.
in the summers I lie out on the hot concrete
and imagine water pouring out through the streets
to wash away marks that have been there for years,
but even as waves pass
they never ruin the picture of the feet.

I like to think it’s a remarkable feat
to keep everything the same
in the quite pass,
and once I got concrete
evidence that years
ago people walked down streets

as if they weren’t streets,
as if their feet
were walking for years
on floating clouds, which makes them the same
as the concrete
gargoyles that sit on the overhang and watch me while I pass.

As time passes
I venture on to other streets
in other towns in places that don’t use concrete
and gravel gets in my shoes and sticks to my feet
which I make a picture of, so that it will be the same
way it was in early years,

but these are years
that have passed
and are only important in my mind, because the same
sun shines down on these streets
and in those and my feet
and the streets are the same, stuck like concrete.

I walk for so long on the same streets
It begins to be years that pass
beneath my feet, instead of concrete.