The Grid

The streetlight stretches my shadow out long,

a thin, dark smear on the cracked cement.

The air smells of diesel and something wrong,

the day's last heat is almost spent.

I have to sidestep a tail made of lime,

a lopsided cat with a chalky grin.

It’s a bright, dusty mark in a gray-scale time,

where the sidewalk ends and the street begins.

My boot catches the edge of a pink-chalk sun,

leaving a smudge on the scuffed, black toe.

The children are sleeping, the drawing is done,

and I’ve still got two miles to go.