Extract Supplied by a Sub-Subdivision

You hobble out in the cold
Moonlight just to look at it,
And for a moment, leaning

On your sticks, with your head back
In ordinary moonlight,
You’re overwhelmed by detail—

The squares of sidewalk concrete,
The cars in the parking lot,
Wind moving a few dead leaves,

Washed out stars, a passing jet—
And the thought runs through your thoughts,
Well, this is it, this is life,

The body sunk in itself,
The sharp smell of the night’s frost,
All the things just being things

In all the small ways at once.
But that thought’s chased by the next—
No, it isn’t, not for you.

For you, life is whatever
Other people are up to,
And however you fit in

Or don’t, are cared for or not,
Handle your business or don’t,
Are seen as worthy or not,

More sinned against or sinning.
Someone invented cement
Others used for this sidewalk,

And it took thousands, millions
Of human interactions
To arrive at those parked cars

And to lift that blinking jet.
You’re in a constructed world.
But then that thought, too, trails off.

The previous thought slips back
As you inhale dead leaf smells
With that thin, sharp tang of frost.