Such a trampoline of sandy, ill begotten, virtues, bounce up to greet my gritty feet.
And, it is a long road to greet…the others!
The others…like me.
So…I trade mountains for the buttery aroma of all the half shells along north beach.
Just scantily clad friends in need of retreat.
There is no need to beware of differences…between pride or right or wrong.
The Queens and bears and otters who came before me allow for no spite.
Within the dunes, no titles, labels or names.
As the sun also sets…we are all the same.
Do they got a 57 Chevy in the yard?
Do they remember 8 tracks?
Do they say their Hail Mary’s?
Do they fear their environment?
Have they heard of sit-ins’ and Negros to the back?
Have they seen the needle in the spoon?
Stranger, stranger, where have you been?
Should I trust you?
What are the sacraments?
Will we both, continue to pretend, friend?
My jaundiced from seasoned sin.
Could I pull the tattered paper down?
A hound dog, a dove of peace and a quail hustled by.
And, all I could do had been relieving my grief with a sigh.
An influx of vigils there in one self-determined space.
With a stretched out, battled scared, hand.
Pigment a bit red, more brown than white.
Black has been my favorite color…but something I know I would never fully understand.
Slipping on mounded snow…a not gracious slip.
Just inches from the ground…strange but not a stranger…a friendly grip.
Another vigilante grounding my sorrows with a lift up.
I need not understand the gesture…no longer had the stranger been so strange.
Unwittingly, what have I done…
With every quiet song not sung.
With every lucrative thought.
With every step I walk along and not, among.
Mindlessly, what have I done.
These days not for treading moderately.
A some Sunday, today.
Even now, as I walk,
Sunday’s wistful streets,
it is not myself that I greet.
With an outlook of flora and fauna.
There is no frenzy.
No need for rivalry.
A recluse traveler.
Not an apple, nor a buck.
I am an indigenous woman.
Cherokee on bent knee.
In the middle,
Pawning my blood to meet my needs.
In contrast, I walk between…
hallowed ground and…
There is no sabbath in this,
the new frenzied silence.
Only falsehoods with an affiliation of dictating violence.
Nothing but fictional logos.
A place to put things…
when there is no comfort between you and me.
Storage sheds made of un-evolved wood.
Denizens that have come and gone.
Potted, elemental, melting pots…wary of humans on the sly.
Mixed with pedigree
breeds of shelter goods.
To awakened to question why.
As I watch,
my venerable hound,
purposely toil her way up the passage,
decidedly being syrup slow.
The thoroughfare is muted.
Not a cloud dresses the sky.
Not a gesture of intolerance crosses her mind.