Hundreds of pocks and pits
improvise tunes
as alley breezes blow
over their rims –
tunes only my low heels can hear
and stomp to.

Walking to Central, I don’t know
these raucous curbs
as well as the fellow with eyes 
averted, scuffling toward me,
heading to some long line
or bus stop.
Year after year after year.

I’ll need weeks or months
treading this worn sidewalk
of his 
before I can hum
above hoarse mufflers, 
“Good Morning, Sir.”

by Tee Zeehan