The promenade is another language lying
unattended along veering expressions of city
lonely like a line, a strip of chiseled memory
holds a reminder that much has been tread;
bursting stamina of a jogger, of a wild cat
dropping excrement on edges
of a gardener struggling with leaves;
its stones remain fixed in frames
graveled stubs and wrappers
garnish the gaunt regularity of direction
tempt lovers to feeble safety
and absorb privacy of strollers
who come from nowhere to capture
smudging its history; unable to articulate
in rains and in wet darkness
abandoned to silence, an archive
where words and footholds wait
prick imagination of loitering hands
steering a walk and a soliloquy
to vent a day’s content on a bench