Newly constructed sidewalks,
overgrown with weeds
like varicose veins--
meant to outlast me.
Imagine them in a century--
my body already absorbed by dirt
or fired to cinders
forty years past--
with its sunned concrete white
faded to a pale mortar grey,
its edges rounded and torn
into crumbled blocks,
the children's initials and handprints
hardly visible anymore.
All of this is meant to outlast me,
blips on a lifeline,
But the man half-asleep on the steps
of the Community Congregational,
with his head propped
on a pillow of bricks--
he sees little more than Cherry Lane,
he sleeps in little more than fatigues.
And so I ask him,
are you the product of some god
are you the product of my imagination
are you the product of chaos?
To which he replies,
I myself was wondering the same.