Something I’ve learned
and begun to fall in love with
is how on your back streets
and little alley ways,
where real intimacy waits,
the curbs are uniformly uneven,
Un-matching,
carved from different stones,
by different hands

Some are granite,
Vermiculate veins cutting through.

Some are charcoal colored,
an unknown kind of rock.

Others still are plain concrete,
and even more are sturdy brick,
perhaps once houses or churches,
A structure more revered

Now they are all together, misfitted side by side
Some are still new and sharp edged,
though these lack much depth
and carry less worldliness

My favorites are worn round
and dimpled from much passage
They have stories, and hold love
within their eroded quadrants