Streets and buses know my name,
faces recognise my face
which recognises faces in return,
for I've always, always walked.
I walk with small change
through and around puddles,
drenched in sunlight and things to do,
carrying the night in my pocket
and the political on my shoulders.
I travel light
tossing the net of my eyes,
drawing in sudden joys,
known sorrows and children,
the commerce in boutiques
the smile of a waiter,
the argument between a vendor and a woman.
I've walked alone,
moving between the I-am-dispassionate
and the I-can't-bear-the-pain.
I've walked home
carrying my diurnal collection
of people and things.
I walk still,
the same streets whose name I know
like the smile of an old friend.
My small change goes
from hand to hand
and disappear into unknown pockets,
the night of the political
the day of absorption
these have not changed.
And so I undress the disguised,
hear sounds
outside of the marked frequencies,
songs I've heard of but not listened to,
melodies familiar and yet unrecognised.
I walk. Sometimes.
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