SIDEWALK

If your body were made of the cement outside my house I’d write you love poems in chalk and lay my body down on the sidewalk to be able to talk to you. I’d place my ear to your hot surface on a summer day to hear you whisper to me. Treading lightly- I’d be careful not to scuff your surface by dragging feet. If kids spit gum out sticking to you and turning you gray, I’d spend ours outside with a chisel scraping you sparkly clean. But you wouldn’t be like sidewalks downtown that glitter as if the act of sparkling takes away the grime and crack cocaine residue.