The foot prints with color.
Stamps across the streets where
cars create a sense of second pace,
passing by the signs now faded green
reads not Route 44
but rather Route 4..something..
Will they ever repaint it green?
What's the point? You wonder
when you're late for work and you may barely
make it, because your gas tank is on E yet again.
What else is new?

New job. New wife. No kids.
Because, can you really afford it?
Price tags are merely fiction
and I know this because of what happened once in second grade.
The library was my favorite place.
It's one of the only places that one is never alone.
I was the only one in class to mix up fiction and non fiction on the test.

And still, I am confused.
For I walk this world with carbon footprints
tears like rain drops-acid even,
and not the kind that spin inner thoughts with color.
Instead, the kind that is not kind at all, but
hurtful-scars the surface of green grass
left to fade like an old photograph.
And the colors fade like roadsigns
that the cities overlook.

Lights can be blinding.
No flash photography in the museum please.
I'm living nonfiction.