on middle street by the indian restaurant

For a minute, maybe two
I stopped at the end of a cobblestone road
to marvel at each cobble

as I hobbled off
to appointments with smaller destinies
of great import
I pondered the cracks between

for a minute, maybe two
I walked to the end of a cobblestone road

the smells of my unslung outrageous fortunes
drifting by
to the tune of saffron and cardamon
and the beat of tandoori.

Kerouac's shadow slipped down the alley
awash in the stench of three bottles of wine
in tattered paper bags

This is the place where great thoughts brew
beneath the feet that break a thousand mother's backs.