I Don't Worry Like I Used To

Down 17th again towards Swann -
Back and forth, always moving behind, getting on -
The leaves flush along the sidewalk past your ankles.
One in front of the other; hand in hand; lasting forever.

I'm no longer myself.
I don't worry like I used to.
I don't even look at the leaves rush behind me anymore - the little what-ifs that sound memories as they brush against cement eternity of the city.
I was such a good worrier!
I ruminated with the best of them. I ruminated under elm, beside oak, beneath maple, against dogwood.

Now, as we pass the park near Swann I'm saying things like "fall came late,"
And asking, "what do you want for dinner?"
With wind bringing it all past - the litter and foliage -
Down the avenue into what surely must be the years behind me.
And as we turn onto the quiet street,
I take your hand.
And I don't think about the leaves going and gathering behind
Where an old man - maybe a shop owner or a housekeeper in a silent morning- will sweep them away, send them on, always going back and forth,
Moving behind and getting on.