Kevin Mihn Allen
 

My Sneakers
Scuff the Curb
 
 
 
 
 

My sneakers scuff the curb. Regardless, vagrant.  Someone here has met me before and read my thoughts into the  ground. Flattened cigarette pursed to lips, one last dead drag, extinguished in spit. Airplane engines roar invisible above the clouds. A new flyer for an old band curls against the glass. The door opens and almost hits me in the shoulder. I sidestep it and slip inside.     _________________________   Attraction on neon avenues, the bars overflow with proverbial speech in which people find themselves wading and splashing each other in compliments and jibes.  Drunkards’ sweat absorbed by wide strands of hair that eventually fall out of favor and wedge themselves into spaces between teeth widened by fender benders, honking horns and some terse words from officers who just can’t seem to move along.     _________________________   The trash outside collects footprints and divies up air.   A hand flicks ashes from the fire escape.   Where do the blind go to listen to the kissing and the feuding, just aching to be scraped off the wall, touched up and laminated?   Voices careen, collide and split apart, releasing an energy immeasurable, making waves on the sun’s surface.

  (c)Kevin Mihn Allen 2003