Walked the streets of my youth
among the splayed halogen
shadows, pockets of light and mysteries
within staid brick, panel,
names of Leonard, Osborne, Robertson
of dubious British bordertown lineage,
spread fingers of maple overhead,
a leaf-stripped late summer for
grieving, thoughts scattershot,
cracked pavement caulked with darkness,
and no comfort, just shopworn
familiarity, glimpse of approaching headlights
of Second Street, thud-thud of tires to road,
a silhouette sparking a smoke in front
of old wide tenements, a shuffle past them,
a leave of myself, and
merciful empty wide pavement, an intractable
path through a purgatory of living grief.
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