If there’s a penny for every footfall

then he’d have no more than a pound,

and even those steps

were only his. The street is empty,

filled with light and stark black

shadows from the spectres of cars

and bins and cats.

“Not scary, not at all,”

He might say to himself,

and kick at a pebble, a

penny on the ground,

who knows. But the truth of it all

is maybe that he’s not really alone.

The spectres of cars

and bins and cats,

aren’t spectres at all. They’re

living and loving and breathing

and watching. And he walks on,

a penny for a step, in steady

company, the whole street long.


By Abbey Brown