Short squeals escape the exhausted concrete

in ascending pitches, my toes hop in an

uneven cadence. Wind from the cars ripples

in swells that hold me. My bobbing

shoulders bump the streetlamp a few times.

Music pauses its blitz on my ear and

retreats to a piece of plastic glossed in sweat. 

The overhead red glare melts my feet 

with the ground for the moment. 

My eyes trek across the inky roadway. I’ve

been told the other side has sprouting daffodils, 

newly cut lawns, and not an unsightly crevice in the

pavement for miles. But the thin fractures wrap

the road like veins, what if I fall in them? And what

if the grass dies before I get there, what if the pavement

isn’t as even as they say, or what if I want to go back?

What if the cars don’t stop?

Green douses my pulsating body, 

the attention of pedestrians behind me 

strike my back, needles that thrust in further 

every second. The cars halt just for me. My 

feet begin to move in tense strides and I blink

for as long as I can until my foot hits the other 

side. I see an open route ahead flanked by 

green grass and my music plays again. 

This isn’t so bad.