Passing dirty streetcorner

After dirty streetcorner,

Long ago.

Squalid geometry.

With all those dissecting miles of asphalt,

Dotted by sewer plates, and narrowed by endless rows

Of parked cars as far as one can see.

Making my way

To that sacred building of self-salvation,

With its Ionic columns and Beaux-Art style,

Where old friends would wait

Patiently

In exalted timelessness among

Law,

Travel,

Religion,

Et cetera, et cetera;

Poised to impart

All the beautiful philosophies

And jaw-agape stanzas

And

Stories and experiences and dreams and tragedies;

To coax the soul from its back alleys.

And you sit a moment

And think

“They are all dead now.”

And the dark fact that you had such a stark thought

Makes you question for a lonely moment your sanity, or

At least

Your immediate hold on your own

Sopping emotions.

But you are pulled from this,

Quickly,

But

Ever

So gently, in all that vaulted solitude,

As you turn your eyes to those wonderful

Rows, and your

Nascent

Epistemology.