Sidewalk Talk By Jasen Sousa

Sidewalk Talk


Out of cracks of concrete language is leaking,
sidewalks are speaking.

I walk out of my door,
broken beer bottles tell a tale of the night before.
I kick broken glass onto the street from the curb,
noise startles, but does not scare the pigeon, well trained city bird.
Walking on concrete slabs making sure not to step on lines,
stuck to the concrete, gum, pennies, nickels and dimes.
I scrape my feet on concrete, continue to walk,
I notice a pink heart drawn by a young girl with chalk.

Take a walk down your block
and listen to the sidewalks talk.

A lonely rose blows along, withering leaves,
a sign of aged love someone never received.
Graffiti, names and symbols someone wanted to represent,
the world continues to misunderstand, never really knowing what it all meant.
An empty condom wrapper blows in the breeze,
a plastic bag stuck on a branch, rustling in the trees.
A homeless man with a dirty grey beard hanging down to his belt,
piles of snow still stand, not yet hot enough to melt.

A newly planted tree begins to grow,
a lost hat in the wind, continues to blow.
A footprint someone left behind in the concrete is drying,
little puddles are left when the sky is done crying.
A little rock you kick as you walk,
listen to the sidewalk talk.
A man with little food, pigeons he feeds,
this piece of paper that someone un-wrinkles and reads.




Taken From
A Mosaic of My Mind By Jasen Sousa (Written at age 24)
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