Walk Ten - Tight Wire and Good Memories

Lines of trees

with dark green leaves

hover over an urban forest

built into an alley.

The rows of homes rest in silence.

The dark greenery,

which plays over a backdrop

of faint blue and gray,

releases secrets,

only told from this hour and on.

I imagine snapping an image

with a polaroid,

to freeze each hour

until midnight.

We would see that

the secrets that live here

unfold more loosely

as the sky darkens.

The image of the alley at this time,

6:15pm,

is intimidating, yet inviting.

To my left,

the next alley

of hidden homes

is lit up with optimism.

The trees here are all wrapped

in fairy lights.

The sight lifts me out of concern.

I feel support from

a non-human entity.

Wires hug the tree bark, tight.

They breathe, slowly;

an act of endurance,

in sacrifice of satisfying

hearts.

Wrapped in wire…

Looped…

for the pleasure of people.

As they brilliantly light up

while stuck in tight wire,

I wonder…

Are they embodying

some of the human ways?

Bright, appealing,

and barely breathing.

They do that sometimes.

We do it with theirs too.

We’re in a play with them,

existential choices

our costumes.

Straight ahead,

the sky’s transition period

is clear.

Its current state:

faint blue

stretching into

a soft peach,

then into soft pink.

Power lines fiercely

cut through this transition.

To my right,

across the street,

a man in a green Eagles hoodie

propels himself forward

against the early evening.

He walks with a bounce,

an eagerness,

as he and the dog behind him

approach night.

He moves anxiously,

his dog excitedly.

“What? WHAT?!”

He stops, pivoting

to see what his dog

is focused on.

His chin of gray hair

reveals his age.

The slowly dimming daylight

washes over his

dark-brown skin

like melting ice

causing a surface to glisten.

For the first time,

I notice large goldfish

moving beneath a sheet of water

in an isolated garden.

The garden is locked up

in safety.

As many times as i’ve

walked by this garden,

and stopped to peek inside,

I’ve never seen the

lines of bright orange

swimming around

at my feet.

A white orchid swaying

in someone’s upstairs porch

makes me feel calm.

Its peaceful quality

makes me think of friendship;

relationships that exceed a bond,

grounded by respect

and whimsical in spontaneity.

A place where disguises

cannot exist.

It sways, gently,

as if no harm

in the world exists.

Through the stretch

of power lines

tracing themselves across the sky,

the moon peeks out,

and as I move forward

it moves

forward alongside me.

In its waxing gibbous phase,

it keeps the score of my

good memories;

all of the footsteps

and laughter

of running through

the houses of friends,

phone calls that have held me

in times I didn’t know, yet,

how to hold myself,

and spontaneous

moments on the LIRR

holding a box of pastries

from La Bergamote,

to bring to an old friend.

She, her sister, and I

silently indulging

at the dinner table.

Why speak anyway,

when feeling at home

in each other’s presence

felt like language in itself?

A line of bright orange

cuts itself through the

transcending sky.

The orange glares

above a truck with

black and white graffiti

on the back of it.

Silent lives move

in cars that zip

down Washington Street.

At my feet,

remains of a smashed pumpkin

is scattered at the curb.

Loud footsteps pop

against my earlobes,

beating concrete,

when a runner chases

his friend,

holding a big orange

water gun in his right hand.

The corner I approach

snatches his body up.

The sounds of

their screaming punches the air,

knocks against the ground

and bounces off of the sky.

A hooded figure

moves swiftly

through the narrow street.

I can see it behind the line of cars.

The pinch of black

disappears before I approach home.

My keys jingle in my hand.

My back speaks,

in response to my dancing.

My courage.

I feel gratitude

for another night

of reaching sacred ground.