She spits
She really spits
Her spit hits the tiled walkway
Flicks in spatters
Flicks across the tired walkway
Each tile we step
Marks each perspective
If only these pavers could talk
Tell the stories worn in from soles of feet
Smell the sugary sweet
Pink bubblegum wads
Each leaf
Crushed underneath street steps
Having reached their full potential as a leaf
It returns to air
Like spit
It no longer exists
Disappears into the abyss
But still she spits
The parts of words she doesn't speak
She spits ideas out
Like a bad taste
The stink of thoughts
Exit from cracked lips
And shines briefly in the sun
Her spit shines and glistens
Just for a moment
That glorious moment
It shimmers
And disappears underfoot
Clumsy prints
Make new memories
We missed the old stories
Told in spit we didn't hear
If only these pavers could talk 

View this poem on The Disappearing »