parts of this town look so old
when covered in youthful, unspoiled snow,
near night
with all the faded streetlights
shining down darkly
on strangers with hooded faces,
soldiering through a storm
to teetering apartment suites.

I think of ragged sages,
all on quests.
wielding guns and drugs,
pay stubs,
crying infant sons,
and other objects of their trade.
traversing a jagged valley
on endless journeys home
or toward
some long-storied relief.

I turn my face from the wind
and stare at my feet.
count each step on each brick.

I try to keep my movements in-step.
I’ve never been told to,
but, I’ve got alotta steps left,
so I best start learning good form.
find an easy bounce and beat.
make some sense
of each
steady and ever-shortening step.

is there a right rhythm to this,
a perfect tune that exists
between fleshy feet and solid stone?

aww,
who knows.
I’ll learn to make one up
and in my strange gait,
sing it like a soldier
in some distant or long-covered trench,
who sits in mutual solitude
and whispers the ancient song,
that seems,
for a moment,
to build toward triumph,
before it falls
back into its sad, universal refrain.

step, step, step,
Ssstteeep, STEp, steeepp,
go my feet,
to varying degrees.

step, step, step,
Ssstt