My walking soul,
borne on the blood leather
of my shoes,
scratches its skin
on the red uneven bricks
below my curious walking.
The aroma of gardenias melts from trees
like icing on warm days running
thick and sweetly;
crooked fingered branches above
reach stiff like the dead.
A snappy stringed guitar speaks
a singing story with the voice
of a man whose hands
work the music.
Sunrise catches me walking about
in the company of humid air,
holding me tightly in a fat warmth
at Jackson Square.
Roger Singer 