I.
Colors intensify just before dusk. Finches flit between trees. Windows glimmer gold. Blue grows.
One neighbor paces her picket fence. She stares at grass, holds a cigarette in her limp left hand, and walks fast.
When I pass, her gaze stays fixed on turf-clad clay. Pink myrtle flowers fall, touch her russet hair. I finish my walk
on our suburban block at darkness. I squint up the street. My neighbor still paces, all clad in tired blue.
II. Father, I know my pacing. Are you concerned for me?
I’ll tell you: I walk around the block around the block around again—I never wonder who might be watching. I never
wonder who might be watching mostly I watch the cracked sidewalk I watch the cracks in the sidewalk—
do you feel concern for me?
The crowns of the trees are a mystery to me but certainly, I am grateful for the shade of their leaves.