Near our house when I was a child,
the roots of a massive tree had lifted
the slab of a sidewalk several inches.
The kids in the neighborhood,
would ride our bikes fast over the slab
and catch air as fearless daredevils
on our way to the local park and ball field.
The other day in the city,
I tripped on a similarly lifted slab.
I almost went down like a sack of bricks,
which would have shattered the overpriced smartphone.
I cursed the city for not repairing an obvious
safety hazard.
It wasn't until I got home
that I realized I had sold out
the small joys and the imagination
of the world's imperfections
for false splendors
of modern life.

Walking home from dinner
I learned a robot was granted citizenship
in Saudi Arabia.
That's the moment I realized
humanity had reached its pinnacle
during the ****** revolution
of the 1960s.
Thirty of forty years from now,
we will sit quietly in nursing homes,
and we will wonder
what the **** happened
that humanity allowed itself
to be replaced.

Standing on a street corner
during afternoon rush hour,
one can see the despair
of people who attempt
to temporarily escape their prisons
for one night.

At the mall on the weekend
before Thanksgiving,
an army of American consumers
window shop, they browse,
they survey the battlefield.
Young women with similar shoes,
and similar hair, and similar politics
huddle in groups to plan
the impending attack the next Friday.
Their body language indicates confidence.
Victory will be theirs.

At the bus stop,
a chubby girl of about 10 or 11
in rainbow colored leg warmers
danced and spun around like a ballerina.
Her mother, dressed in blue hospital scrubs,
sat on the bench and watched.
A smile formed beneath her weary eyes,
revealing a small joy after a hard day.
Another woman in a business suit said,
‘She does well for such a heavy girl.’
The mother politely nodded
and then pulled out her smartphone.
Her smile vanished.

A black man in his fifties
with pockmarks all over his face
shuffled in my direction on the sidewalk.
He carried a plastic shopping bag
that appeared to contain a sweatshirt.
His pants were torn near the knee
and he wore old fashioned leather shoes
that had probably seen more miles and time
than any pair of shoes, or feet
should ever have to endure.

‘Excuse me,’ I said as we approached.
‘I'm wondering if you're Christ.’
The man grinned, revealing yellow, decayed teeth.
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Yeah, pretty much.’
‘Fine. Just don't tell anyone else.’
The man then continued on his way.
I headed home
to make a sandwich.

A lone fisherman in his retirement years
sat in a folding chair just off the bike trail
along the Monongahela River.
‘Any look today?’ I asked.
‘Doesn't matter,’ he said.
‘I started fishing years ago
to get some time alone.
Any time I'm here I feel lucky.’
The smile across his face
proved his point.