january ninth time

the street was injured
and it wept from fire hydrants
and its braids were dark like asphalt
and there were red graffiti scars that it
could not conceal, despite the traffic guard's
desperate attempts to stand on top of those very
spots. it slithered through town like the anxious
whistling of a child walking home alone. nowhere
else have I felt such sadness--the street only
hit, only built to be beaten, only worthwhile
if sufficiently used.