Neighborhood Street

By Carl Scharwath

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In my dreams your travels awaken me. I am your neighborhood street, a place where dreams inhabit and nightmares coincide. Houses in a row, storybook pages turn, each whispering chapters seen. Automobile tires, bicycles, and blood mark my face, a tapestry of journeys and lives unknown. I wear my scars like medals, each scrape a sigh, memories etched in asphalt like tears in the sky.

I am your neighbor, the one
Never heard
                   Only stories whispered
In the canvas of blacktop

Sidewalks worn smooth by time
Shadows stretch as
                         Sunlight climbs
Upon a child’s spilled laughter

Lovers stroll hand in hand
Grandmothers kneel
        In garden blooms

Woven in a lullaby

Broken in the sound of 
The sick mosaic
In windows lit
With the sadness of a hit and run.