Tuesday, 10 December 2013
the all inclusive Crazy
The sidewalk fell uneven,
sloping off to the street
conferring, on the people
who tread upon it,
a somewhat drunken gait
as they ambled along,
away from the cars
that the crocked path
seemed bent, on offering them up to.
and, then, as a women passed me by,
she uttered the word: Crazy . . .
and it lingered on my mind.
what was Crazy?
the sidewalk? the traffic?
me - moving in old lady traipses?
or was she outing herself, as in:
look out, I’m Crazy!
she was, after all, talking to herself.
she smiled, self-consciously, though,
as if she was embarrassed at being caught
mumbling: Crazy . . . but what was Crazy?
it was, an ugly evening, as I recall,
that hissed with random cold spits of rain
and the odd mean puddle splatter
and, of course, the cockeyed trajectory
we fought - to get where we were going.
I suspect, she thought - loudly thought:
it’s Crazy . . . it’s just Crazy.
one, of any number of people,
walking around - thinking: Crazy . . .
I suppose, as in:
the all inclusive kind of Crazy.
photo: On the Sidewalk - W. Bourke
© 2013 Wendy Bourke