week 11 sidewalk

Passing another block.  I look cautiously around in order not to slip in between the cracks.  I can feel the tension of the tar.  Everyone crevice tells a story and as I walk over each one I am creating another story that this side walk can tell.  Grass trickles up through some of these splits which explains the lack of cigarette butts. The indifference of each one tells me the situation of the person who discarded this filter.  We all need some kind of filter for life and a filter for the little piles of spit.  Light and white and thick and brown.  All textures of phlegm.  You can tell the dry mouths from the smokers to the sicken people. I try to dodge these germs that send fear through my sneakers as I made my way to the Tia restaurant in downtown Bangor.  I try to read the creases as I would a palm of a hand to see its future.  I started receiving what was to become of this well traveled path in life when the darkened asphalt turns into a checkered pattern of small blocks.  Red is the color of anger and that was no coincidence.  The bottoms of my “souls” have become tattered with the sidewalk virus.  The bricks must have been a time consumption for whom ever laid these down, block after block.  Rectangles flowed  in a pattern which represented a weaved stitching on mother Earth.  These blocks where flush and abutted the prior tar walk way which was my trail at this time.  The trail may have crosswalk which lay within them but the path never stops.  Every road may have bumps within but it gets you where you are going.  I was now there just in the nick of time.  I step through the restaurant door as a cold rain showered the over dry walkway.  The rain enlightens the color and brought out the beauty I never saw before.  The moment was perfect and I wish it was the sidewalk that wasn’t cracked and it was the hands of time.  This moment could last forever.