Among a lot of poems
There was one
I could never quite bring to mind
Except that I had composed it
A while back
Going down this street
This street on the even-numbered side
Bathed in a morning light
A street of small persistent shops
Between the stricken Seine and the hospital
A poem I wrote with my feet
As I compose all my poems
Silently in my head walking
But I remember nothing
Except the street the light and the chance
That had put into this poem
The word “respect”
A word I wouldn’t ordinarily set pulsing
Across my mind’s pages of poetry
Beyond that nothing
And this word this word that won’t budge
Witnesses the end of that street
Like a tree space has forgotten