Self Portrait as Sidewalk

Sometimes I trip people just to see their hands fly up as gravity muscles them down to the ground.  Just to see the lopsided gallery of their shoes -- rubber soles, leather soles, the shoes of shit-faced stumblers and the fickle feet of children veering off into lush plant jungles or the pocked moonscapes of neglect on the boulevard. The shuffle stumble of the man from the group home down the street, that visionary who talks to his hand without shame or censure. Dogs with their rough music of paw pads and toenails.  I am only noticed in the places where I am most broken.