The Sick of March.
The cold caught me,
and each dry cough pulled me
closer to the ground.
Before I knew it,
I stood, deeply rooted in the soil,
chin pressed firmly to the earth,
eyes full of sidewalk.
So many different types of shoes
walking to the next points of their lives.
What leather and rubber and plastic
could tell me about these people.
What could they tell me about myself?