Crutches On Cobblestone

I slowly walk the path
of the downtown row,
With a drum beat pace
I know all too well.
A mist of rain soaks my face.
A gust of wind blowing,
As I stroll these cold alleys.

To nothing and no one I want
to belong tonight.
It is a quiet bewilderment in my position I feel.
I have no idea why I walk this street
Everything fun and casual is gone.

As I pass the couples, drunks, beggars, and bums in the downtown row,
I keep my head at a downward angle.
I have no desire to catch a glimpse of their eyes,
To be that random stranger in the night,
Is a role I tonight am glad to play.

I stroll past bar room windows.
I cannot contain my pride,
As my eyes glance inside.
I am looking for laughs or a smile,
But only shadows and dopplegangers
Of a recent past so distant,
is what I find.

The words and conversations grip me.
The time spent and the wasted currency of my soul is wiped clean and swept away.
I have lived through both paths,
Each as addictive and compulsive.
The desire to go back is there,
And today I’m caught in the middle.

The chill of that wind is kicking up,
And I imagine Spring just hours away.
I zip my coat tightly, and throw my hat on my head as I stroll further.

I look to the garbage in the gutter,
and watch the freezing rain through a late Winter Moonlit glow.
My cluttered sub conscience ponders of Dickens and crutches on a cobblestone road.
I imagine of nights like these,
Across the Dark Atlantic seas.
I wonder what Mr. Dickens looked upon as he strolled the London streets.
Maybe debts and splendor,
As he watched through a cold breeze, a downtrodden lamp lighter achieving his daily wage for welfare.

I have moved past the hub of life and onto the quieter streets of broken aspirations.
Homeless shelters, rescue missions, and shifty eyes look at me as if I belong.

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