I.
Colors intensify just before dusk.
Finches flit between trees.
Windows glimmer gold. Blue grows.
One neighbor paces her picket fence.
She stares at grass, holds a cigarette
in her limp left hand, and walks fast.
When I pass, her gaze stays fixed
on turf-clad clay. Pink myrtle flowers
fall, touch her russet hair. I finish my walk
on our suburban block at darkness.
I squint up the street. My neighbor
still paces, all clad in tired blue.
II.
Father, I know
my pacing.
Are you concerned for me?
I’ll tell you: I walk
around the block
around the block
around again—I never wonder
who might be watching. I never
wonder who might be
watching mostly
I watch the cracked
sidewalk I watch
the cracks in the sidewalk—
do you feel
concern for me?
The crowns of the trees
are a mystery to me
but certainly, I am grateful
for the shade
of their leaves.