Sidewalk Songno calendar to mark
the day’s events,
only memories pressed
onto a mattress
of coarse concrete.as walking eyes
look away.I spoke, one day,
to a poet huddled
in a bundle
in a doorway.he was selling his heart
on folded paper.soon, I left
with a one dollar page
of tumbled words,and was filled
by a song
of beauty —softer than all
the walkers of the city.
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