Rob S. Friedman
January 2021
Morning Walk
Sidewalks and their four-foot widths are just enough for the hound dog and me. For her a leash length to sniff and For myself (Now and then stumble stepped) lost bereft (Amid cracks in panels and twig-scribed names) roots in the open.
A rainbow of impressed letters: Geo. H. Oswald, Contractor, And subordinate, dates decades long gone. Cordoned in the city’s work Why – concrete freshly poured, an elixir, for George’s name an honor framed, a shared pride? Could they have known George, as I have come to? Will his echoed call rise to a stranger’s voice? Will my fancy allow his hardened plea?
Over decades we pedestrians have eyed the corner before us. Not the precise lettering above a random date his name his title the day’s remembrance. He confidently mixed city water and sandy compound, high-sided shovels full of anticipated pride his gift our passage.
Rob S. Friedman 