The lotion on the street
keeping them soft
preserving the footsteps,
the treadmarks,
of the lives pressed on.
the clock ticks, the seconds pass.
the minutes feel like days
wasting away.
tick. tock. tick. tock.
the streetsweepers of old
brush the pain away,
into a pile of missed birthdays,
empty phonecalls, shattered hearts.
they mingle with the joys
tattered and forgotten,
tainted with the burned edges of
loneliness.
the green lights of growth, of life
slowly turn to the underbrush yellow,
the wilting years
of faded memories
cigarette holes in filmy light
the red light of death moments away.
the street is silent
but for the ticking of time
image from Naomi Imagery
10. Write a poem every two weeks (2/78)
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