Old Stomping Grounds
Every step is a feast.
Every back alley shortcut,
a reel of footage from yesterday.
The seams in the sidewalk
tell a braille memoir.
Neon shares an inside joke.
Somebody waves --
a kind stranger,
or an old friend?
Today he's both.
Somebody else spits
from his car window --
Hey, doesn't he know
this is a sacred place,
a holy land for
the religion of nostalgia?
Ah, forgive his sins;
nothing's sacred until
it can no longer be
taken for granted.
Eventually, he'll leave, too,
only to return to that spot someday
and see something grown
where he's watered the ground.
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