These sidewalks hum with distrust.
I long to run my hands along the chipping stone
of this old bridge and wonder how many cars have
rumbled over its pavement,
rushing to all the urgent somewheres
before time stood at attention.
I fantasize:
This cracking skin tracing the lines
of masons long dead, their sweat and ignorance
etched into cobbled texture.
When their grandmothers died
they didn’t know why.
I am lucky to breathe this moving air.
I am lucky to return to stillness,
even though its air is stagnant,
a stifling electricity.
I will stand guard and keep these idle
hands for another day.
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