a poet walking and talking

and i took off in one
of the cardinal directions
(west toward a catholic
building so pretty and
magnificent - big enough
to shadow the hunger &
sorrow in this town) and
i go down a few blocks
and a nurse smiles hesit
-antly at me, knowing i'm
not dressed for walking
but perhaps not knowing
i knew it too but didn't
care. i noticed the air
quality all around me
as the blood pumped
and i took step after
step, weak music
playing through
too short cord
style head-
phones -
in the
other
hand -
no plan
really
'cept to
walk and
continue
walking.

i turned north, then east then south
then west back to where i'd started
by now the sweat was pouring i'd
picked up the pace toward the end
actually walking faster. and a piece
of it comes back through the music -
some kids yelling at me telling me
i'd dropped my pocket! why this is
funny is known to very few.

the poet is mysterious.

the walk is timeless.

the body and mind -
the dream and reality -
can they merge completely
and become something whole
instead of two separate halves? or
maybe still two separate halves but
halves that have wore down around
the edges (like glass left in the
tide of the ocean) over time so
that they fit perfectly -
together?

you can think when you walk
and for a poet sometimes that's
just what's needed.

hold on. i got a call...