I stride along a cobblestone street
where three centuries of soft red bricks lean in on me,
where I look left right up down forward and backward
here where history
knowledge like flower scarped mounds
tipping their feather caps to lives that came before,
where trees grow old bearing witness
and to them these mere moments:
a nor'easter's breeze, a blizzard snow squall,
street fights just brawls.
Pants tight, pants black,
sunglasses that scream style from a mile a away.
Deliberate coolness with mean intent:
but my thoughts proceed my actions
my style begets my character,
and least of all that I fit in these jeans
skinny tight all the way from ankle to hip.
Belt bleeds irony set firm against bod.
Coolness drinks cup of chai,
or tea for the masses,
a strong espresso latte cappuccino,
or just liking it black as deep water mud.
The body politic roles and rambles in and out
cafe's full to the brim coffee or tea misunderstands
communication's key role played out across generations:
people speak of oil giant of global commerce.
But I see hipsters and drag queens and low truckers
driving the dirty red knives of the third world:
coffee and tea high in the world's mind.
Future begins with questions
where will these streets lead?
who will beg and who will rule from high above
brick layered canopies and roof top gardens world class views?
Will we learn from lessons of the past?
Will we be blind by the time we can see?