Brushing fingers on the rough sidewalk
I find peace in the pattern of concrete,
Absolutism and Manifest Destiny
Stretching out from my feet to every compass point.
But on my knees, sleeves rolled up,
And rooting at the cracks in the pavement
I find weedy greens and pill bugs,
Black ants and worms.
They abide by the rules of this swath,
Cut and poured and rolled smooth by man.
Yet, there is no pattern to their squiggle,
Their murmur in the wind whistling past.
At ground level, with my knees scratched and bloody,
The jungle reappears, and I am vulnerable,
perhaps crazy, to be pressed cheek to sidewalk.
A primitive urge surges inside of me.
I color outside the lines.