Fragments of a Walk

The bag had torn. I hadn’t checked

and now the seam gave way

not fast enough to drop it all

not strong enough to stay

A child scraped chalk across the bricks

then wiped it with his shirt

he watched the white return to red

and scuffed along the dirt

A window kept a bare chair

no cushion, only frame

the shape of someone left behind

whose silence held a name

My shoe picked up a foil square

or something thin and gray

it curled with me. It wouldn’t leave.

I brought it anyway

A dog behind a wire rail

stood still beside a dish

no sound, no blink, no wag or plea

as if he had one wish

The man outside the grocer’s door

held something in his lap

a cup or horn, I couldn’t tell

he didn’t lift the flap

I didn’t stop or speak or nod

the bag had grown too thin

I crossed the street without a thought

and let the rest begin