The walk

Are you ever more consistent than the world around you? Are you ever more regular than the river, constant than the cars that travel down the boulevard?

A westbound sun places my shadow in trailer parks, The Paul Ream, and Jones Paint and Glass. Sees my footprint cross the river bridge, the school yard, and Burrelle's.

The children leaving Independence, heads bowed with homeward-bound homework-thoughts.

And then the sun and sky and traffic loses me somewhere on 800 North. Slipping into a shadow, with a beep and a deep breath.

Every week, and every working day.

You could say I walk the walk. I fail to speak.

And, here I am still walking. Here I am still trudging up that remote road, and I outlive the river, dying of thirst.

The bridge deviates into gang signs before I stumble off my path.

The year ends and begins for institutionalized education, but I am still here, walking.

When will the world and I collide?

When will someone tell me to get off the path, take a different route, threaten me with alterior motivations?  Altered me or else?

It will it be at night, when my heels mark the passing of eight hours. When all but ill intent sleeps on soft beds with worried heads.

That's when I'll grace the road with streetlights, welcome their orange awareness, and leave the shade to the shadows.