Little open mouths,

worn out tongues, dirty talkers,

they’ve been talking about you

when you’re not around,

how you’ve been

going this way and that,

scuffing them on street corners,

shuffling through the

warm streets at night

listening to voices from open windows.

Look how worn they’ve  become

these imprints of your time on earth

tired as old leather

like your bruised heart

made soft on a thousand defeats,

it’s won them a certain authenticity

that right now says you could

walk this road forever.