The Road Beneath Our Feet

Coming Going

There’s no splendor in snow becoming mud
clumsy imprints of shoe soles 
all leading to the street’s edge 
ghosts must have walked here 
inelegant ghosts 
back and forth with no direction they walked 
they must have worn shoes though
to let us know they were hungry 
they want us to ask them questions 
about how tall they are if they 
wear hats if they feel cold 
they must feel cold so lonely in their walking
first one then another never meeting
they grin at us who watch their 
footsteps turning pristine snow to mud 
how much they must want us to know 
their names the only things they’ve lost.

— Sabine Pascarelli