The mossy stitch of a concrete quilt can
cosy and tuck the gummy road. And should
we scrawl upon patchwork step, catching
skip in the slabby hopscotch ground.
Receding upon the pavement scalp
its riprap etching on our skin
where boredom breaks the cracked grins
left to trudge through polished tar
an asphalt crypt of broadbent muck.
But were I tried to argue stint
when waning wild and brittle at the knee
with a wary shuffle of aged feat?

Nevermore would you see
Flagstones on a seasoned street.