The Curb

Where else does every noise, sound, and season end up?

THE CURB
March 18, 2006

The curb against which all the noise
is blown by passing traffic,
and every burst of big-teethed laughter;
every strum of every tune;
every word and shout and greeting
tremble there as time goes on.

It’s that which holds the heels
of early morning rain
where puddles rise to find the sun behind
the flat-top nimbus
fed on dog-nose black and nightmare shrieks
and holes dug deep in midnight yards
where the menacing big-mouth wind speaks.

The curb is where the vermin turn
their tails to peer and peek.
It’s where they find their fleas and eat and sleep.
It’s the place where shadows fall and stretch
across the vibrant streets
to hide amongst the rats who scratch and itch.

It’s the curb against which errant coins
knock and ping and where they roll
and turn black among debris
and where the autumn shoves its leaves
and winter dumps its snow
and flowers never grow in spring.