there is rhythm in the city streets,
a beat that struggles up from under concrete
to pick at your veins with dirty fingertips--
and you, dear innocent, wander open-mouthed
wild under the open sky and
hemmed in by the height of the buildings.
all on your own you are stellar, astronomical,
orbiting the many works of men's hands.
with your own footsteps you build a tune
of pounding, searching, a trek
that might be months or minutes long,
letting the city grub its palms on you
till exhaustion and heat stroke threaten too close.
oh but the next day there is still more
to be found, more doorways and cafes and
more streetlights to shelter under,
more images of flesh and stone to store away.
the sun in its path cannot deter you,
can only provide the impetus to get up and out
and the light to see, to search
when two feet and two eyes and sweat
are all you have ever needed to be alive.