Roy Herndon Smith
Late weekday morning
on this residential street,
background city noise—
traffic, sirens, trains—
still I hear the crunch of the
steps of passers by.
What’s most familiar—
fluttering shadows leaves cast—
is forever new.
What’s most clear—the play
of joy, sorrow, rage, and love—
is ambiguous.
The residential
quiet holds the clamor of
the working city.
dust 