Written on rough
concrete, begging for
repair,
groaning with the stress
of elder trees whose roots
have been growing since
the sidewalk was merely a
distant blueprint
each letter takes form,
the energy drains into
slate-colored tiles
the off-white substance,
once as long as an old man’s
weathered hands
grows smaller and humbler
until there is nothing left
but dreams and aspirations
waiting for the infrequent rainstorm
to wash it all away
Unspoken Politics 