A Poem a Day (742): New York walks

 
Camouflage
 
He slides into the cracks in walls,
seeps into spaces etched in concrete,
the places between oceans swept,
air blown outside wild shadows.
This skin resists insistent erosion,
mixes faces beyond every false start.
Reflections dance, drip checkered lights,
wipers sweeping midnight’s rush.

We are slow to weave our stories.
Moonlight combs dry leaves to memory,
no imprinted names on ghosted windows.
He echoes this night of slipped shadows,
speaks words ripped from his own pages,
phrases you wish to recall in morning’s dew.
Eyes haunt, caught in moments only his.

He sees you, through you, and you repeat,
voices his regrets, his sorrows, his burnt wishes,
but they’re the same as everyone else’s.
Nothing vanishes. You could step outside yourself
and catch his glance in mirrored time,
try to walk the imprint he leaves,
knowing you could never live who he truly is.
 
 
Stickman
 
Stickman with an uneven smile,
clothes drip like laundry
on disjointed limbs etched out.
He sticks out like fresh cream,
armour rusted in salt dust,
plasters a smile on the iced street.

Night's glimmer creeps into his eyes,
tells you things he wants to forget,
dreams of lucid summer, what he can’t resist,
when clouds forgot to sweep his sight.

He walks tall beneath moon shimmer,
winter aching his bones,
seeps wisdom like milk,
this sustenance that should sustain him,
but he is moulded from water.

It flickers sometimes on the surface
of ideas stretched too thinly,
memories he can’t block,
old phrases that used to work,
the silences he’d rather forget.

Yet we can walk and talk and be ourselves
on these silent streets keeping their truth.
We can be bonded through small things,
be a safe harbour in this weathered storm.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November’s end in New York, 2025