Western Avenue
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Western Avenue,
hell on earth, strung out like -
well, like all my hot summer days,
crying lilac petals in the thick wind,
sunshine drying the mud on children's faces.
an old man up the street, slowly mowing,
his model-T still fresh in the garage, and I
have never waved to him while passing by;
Western Avenue,
where my cowboy boots rustle through the dust
of late-autumn sighs, exhausted long and dry,
leather clinging to my arms and inside my mind,
I admit, a tear would fit, had I the heart to cry.
only in the silence of those moments could I hear
the breaths of the gods playing in my ear, as if
standing next to me, flesh and blood and reality;
Western Avenue,
where lined like oases are tall streetlamps
providing light in the darkness of winter
that my night-eyes have always found pleasing.
my icicle fingers grasping for your warm hand
finding only the empty air by a stop sign,
and oh, how I turned my head to your window,
looking beyond our short time and history;
Western Avenue,
where my footfalls are embedded in stone
and how many times have I let my feet carry
the silly thoughts, the heaviness, the despair?
how many of those steps are lightened with joy?
my feet cannot remember the tune or the harmony;
Western Avenue,
where my carefully placed liminal moments
crept along in curbside clouds, and I saw
the vastness of creation inside of stormdrains,
the length of time's window through residential homes,
and how every moment was crooked and straining
under the weight of decisions and indecisions,
hours I thought I could spare, and then lost,
the dancing echoes of smiles, a tiny faint glimpse
of what could possibly contain infinity -
now trampled upon by my boots, questioning
what has this walk really given to me
but a hundred steps to ponder and regret
and now I wonder where my memories go
when I run out of space in my mind
or when my feet come upon my driveway.
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