I walk behind my mother.
The sign says "18th Street."
Cold stings my skin,
and there's snow in my hair.
My eyes catch the green
in an old woman's coat
and the sick, faded leaves
of plants that are dying.
This street used to be beautiful.
I know that the cracked things
once shined with the sun,
so many years before me.
There is spray paint graffiti
on the windows of shops.
Bold letters and pizza
peel from a billboard.
An old man walks past me
without looking up.
A woman is swearing
at her three-year-old son.
The people move slowly,
like every step hurts.
There's a girl on the street.
She looks at the ground.
Some days I walk with them.
I've been down these streets.
Sometimes I freeze
in a forest green coat.
Why doesn't someone just
wipe off the windows?
Does the boy ever smile
in the summer?
I'm walking too fast,
and my shoes are too tight.
It's hard to keep up,
and my coat is too blue.
My mother's hair blows behind her.
She pulls her coat tighter,
cause she knows too well
of the paint and the pizza.
Pushing the wind, stepping on ice,
our heels click the pavement.
The snow turns to black
as it lays on the street.