i’m walking the line
the long, thin line that leads graciously from this borough to that
snaking past a wailing wall nowhere near Jerusalem,
like a ghost guide, up the proverbial steps to your heart
i’m walking the line
a freshly painted line, right down the center
of Wilshire Blvd. slinking along, off-kilter
somewhere in the westbound lane, an alternative
to a boundary we don’t deserve.
i’m walking the line
a friendly, partially directional reminder that it’s all real,
and drastic, and horrible and beautiful,
and sometimes ass-backwards when you fail
to notice the skyward pointed branches of a lonely tree
in Echo Park.
i’m walking the line
but doing absolutely everything i can to avoid it,
shuffling my awkward feet block after block,
sidestepping, missing the cracks, soft-shoeing around
the inevitable grace that my body yearns to inhabit.
i’m walking the line
only now a simple graphite scribble
on the gentleman’s page across from my eyes.
suddenly the pounding music in my tired ears,
and the tired people sitting dangerously close to my thoughts
exit the building like a bird falling desperately from the wire.
walking the line
a long and thin line in this enumerated mess.
not meant to follow or hold dear, walking this line
only makes sense running headlong into your foot,
then your leg, and finally settling in, a thoroughbred
with blinders, as a single, lovelorn thread placed neatly
in the fold of your dress
