Morgan Elizabeth Folgers (Bio)
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What is a street?
A corner, a section,
With people inching,
Wallowing, gawking,
Sauntering, dreaming,
Wishing,
Turning their souls and hearts
Into footsteps.
My world is a street,
Waiting for footsteps to clomp the gray.
Waiting for . . . What?
It’s all in vain.
Because although many
Paint the sidewalks,
The pastels are washable,
No more than mere soot and dust bunnies
That gather with the slightest
Sighs of the skies,
Disappearing from
Whence they came.
Why do I live in a world
Of washable paint?
Where are the Sharpies
That paint the surface
With vibrant oranges and reds,
With arrows directing all eyes
To each crevice and foundation of footstep?
All colors wash away
With the demons of ignorance,
The heavy steps of unwillingness to cease the pace
And absorb the surrounding world through taste.
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In the street, there is no quietude.
There is no moment to
Recognize the piercing knives
Inside each footstep’s anatomy.
No moment to understand,
No moment to differentiate between
Jagged asphalt and blanket-soft concrete,
No moment to interpret
The tongs and stabbing screeches
Of the clusters of metal and oil.
The sea of red, yellow, and green
Blinds all ability to
See beyond the system
Of appropriating into
The smooth traffic cycle
Of coming, of going,
Of invisibility, of mere nod.
Where are the colors
That liven up the streets,
The hues that remind all
To look beyond the lines of gray and yellow
And see beauty for the first time?
A street, when seen,
Is the canvas of many authors,
The songs of all tongues and nations
That merge into a masterpiece.
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