BRICK SIDEWALKS
Journeys rarely begin when we think they do,
or where we think they do.
Somehow, by fate, or the malevolence
and ill humor of a cynical god,
I found myself in a small town -
permanently…
I could have been anywhere, but as it turns out,
I was in Northern Ohio.
There may not be anything right
about this place for me, but there’s nothing
wrong about it either; which of course, is the
problem…
Once, I said, “I don’t long for a small town,
I short for it.” I was mistaken.
It was said from thirty years distance
and memories clouded by high speed chases
of elusive dreams. I had forgotten the
sidewalks…
Brick sidewalks laid as herringbone tweed,
grass encroached, leaving uneven paths
that play havoc with slick soled shoes.
Worse, of course, are the sidewalks of slate,
slippery when wet; surprisingly in tact after
decades…
Year after year creeps by, eventful
and uneventful, even and uneven, broken
and unbroken. Sidewalks and houses and lives
deteriorate. Time is a hod carrier whose
bricks dissolve in rain and tears, and builds
nothing…
Surrounded by the mist of an early morning fog,
houses, like sidewalks, are merely suggested;
images as much in mind as in space.
Ghosts of trees loom out of the mist,
and cigars in the Ginkgoes clack and
chatter…
The pace of my life has slowed and I’m truly grateful.
This morning, I actually stopped to smell the roses
growing between two houses: a friendly fence.
I’ve heard that saying all my life and have
never done it; smell the roses -
Well, I’ll be damned…
Regis McCafferty
Canton Ohio 1995