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