2nd Street

Every day poetry is inscribed
among mailboxes

and fire hydrants,
low down, where walls meet sidewalk,

cellar doors rust,
and pavement is battered

by ten thousand footfalls.
Squat down a moment

in the shadow of FIRST UNION BANK―
dirt particles separate

into individual specks,
and stains of old crimes

compose a jigsaw.
Here is poetry.

Here is the real.
Here is change with each heelscrape.