On a nearby corner people
gather like twisted vines, listening
to street rhythms and sidewalk music.
Standing there was a rite of passage,
an image statement of you.
It’s where passions are formed and spirits
blend, where names have value and
brotherhood reigns.
The traffic is a language in motion. A sound
familiar and expected day and night,
pressed over concrete and tar where
the corner becomes a stairway to the
center of the world.
Roger Singer 