by all the faces we wear.
So many times you turn a corner
into a dark alley
cobblestones wet with rain
and abandon yourself there, again.
Alone and wailing, you throw your
complaints once more against the
narrow brick walls—though long ago
the walls grew hardened to your problems.
But then, here you come again,
walking up the street whistling,
hands in your pockets,
able to hear your self and
ready to stroll into that alley
lift your self
up, wrap it in
your own warm coat
and tell it a funny story
just to make your self laugh.
In The Alley