When the sunlight slants
and turns
a grim gray,
sobering the buildings—
and the city traffic
begins to make its music—I walk
and try
to keep a cool head
about my own ego.
Sighing
must be a lot less impressive
than singing,
though—they're
kind of the same thing.
And yet, I can't seem to stop
or ignore
the fascinating patterns
my own shoes make
on the concrete—
their consistent tempo
like a backbeat
to some contrapuntal fabric
which refuses
not to use me.
And that's how I know,
in my
innermost soul,
I am still
a beginner,
a student, just a kid—
who believes
what he was taught
to believe
about those.