The Sidewalk

The sidewalk never forgets
the grasshopper’s half-form
and two hand prints pressed
in crushed stone. It remembers for awhile
the silver paths of slugs glazed under moonlight,
street-lit rhinestone studs of shattered glass,
children’s chalk drawing fading
under sprinklers.

It remembers tricycle tracks after puddles,
ant piles sugared away from kitchens,
break your mama’s back cracks,
and oblique outlines of dripping summer
bodies absorbing its stored warmth.

On a lazy morning I lay my face
soft against its rough one
and listen for two drunks
holding each other’s
laughter and the skip-a-rope slap and song
of Cinderella dressed in yellah
or my mother reminding me
always, to keep to the right.

I listen for the step-tap of buzzard lady and cane,
the rumble of skateboards escaping
and three boys beating
inverted pickle bucket drums –
unconscious rhythms
in my step the rest of the day.
I press an ear to the course of stone
stretched parallel to the facades of our lives –
our wet births, continual decay.
I press an ear to the sidewalk
and hear nothing.