Traveling
by Odin Roark

In New York,
if sidewalks could express…

Our bipedal locomotion,
with its rhythmic motion of walking,
undeniable perfection of swinging limbs,
gifted clockwork symmetry,
a mechanical coincidence of events seemingly related
probably makes proud the concrete stage,
arousing silent applause and cheers for our
collective balance of instinctive choreography.

All the while…

The human stride remains uncomplicated,
its dazzling operation requiring little conscious thought,
as our feet carry out our involuntary wishes,
our bodies on auto-pilot lurching forward
allowing our voluntary minds atop the flesh enhanced machine
to manage the synchronicity of breath, pulse, pores,
and the multitude of inner-locking gears for each successful step
while we dream and plan experiences for the myriad destinations
of our trek.

What magic this.

All because of natural selection from barren tundra,
to jungles and swamp,
to mountainous migration,
to concrete and steel metropolises
housing millions of our kind.

How comforting…

Knowing each step forward
is an innate leap of faith,
our unconscious assumption
that we won’t tumble, topple,
or land improperly,
all the while advancing each step extravagantly,
assuredly, and with no less audaciousness
than history’s great pyramids,
and the conquering of Everest.

And yet…

The art of walking in most cities, including New York,
like the increasing taking-for-granted of other inborn sentience,
we are succumbing to paved highways and all other sorts
of fast lane living.

It makes one wonder…

If sidewalks could express,
would they be mourning the disappearance
of our shoe leather rhythms,
the echoes of progress,
achievement’s cadence?