These feet
Trail homeless leaves
Down each lane
Left barren

In places I’ve always
Lingered
As a boy whose ghost
Still walks

Across what pathways
Littered
With branches
Rattled by autumn

Hail coming storms
Of winter
Like winds which kill
Too soon

As they tear from
Wooden limbs
Those nests
That break so easy

Rattled
And fallen empty
At the cost
Of colorful lies

Distracting
Who might see
My fated stroll
Among them

Between such
Covered crosswalks
Where kids
Find passage back

Toward doorways
Shining bright
Among thick
And piling needles

When acorns
Drop like pellets
Atop their heads
Unscathed

Near kitchens
Warm as day
Come nighttime
Creeping gently

Hiding faint
But apparent imprints
Behind each step
They take

As the invisible
Wandering man
Forgets his life
Once waiting

Someplace
Beyond those neighbors
He haunts
Since chasing light

Defining
Death through drifts
Along those rows
Of windows

Holding memories
He can’t fathom
Even if that child
Dreams.

– J. Pigno