It is a cold night,
and walking beside
the painted white line
on the edge of the grey concrete road,
it sometimes feels like
a draft of wind could
send you backwards;
you lurch
and dig your feet in the ground
and find the will to keep walking
folding your arms around you to keep warm,
your back arched like a crossbow,
hair rumpled, unwashed,
and eyes bleary —
seeing frames of a disconnected dream,
and dust riddled shoes
plodding on the surface,
all at once
and not at all.
The road meets an intersection
so you stand on the sidewalk
under a lamppost
waiting for something.
Hey look,
there was a shape under the lamppost
and it just disappeared.
It was a shape, I saw it.