I no longer walk to get fit 
but to see the sights,
my suburban streets —

the rusting red tricycle, 
portable basketball goal
net ragged gray,

the peeling fire plug 
where all the neighborhood dogs 
lift a leg,

the house where 
the owner was murdered
by a jealous lover,

the church steeple struck by lightning,
a driveway with its faded coat
of black tar —

this body limping along,
war-weary rebel laboring down
flowery ways and gruff avenues, 

mind in contemplation
of the connectedness
between myself and others,

these my neighbors, 
my sisters and brothers 
in time.