Black heels and patterned tights trod down sidewalks cracked and bent. A bark is followed by a mid-sip scold, “Dafney Behave!”. The air smells of yeast rolls, pine and barbeque chicken. A train whistles twice, then a church bell rings. I cross a creek, then an intersection and eavesdrop on two men walking behind me, “…times are tough…position moved to Florida”. Two bouncy heads covered in braids and balls run circles in the road. White sneakers creak on the peeling paint of the old wooden porch. Sitting in tattered wicker the Waffle House waitress stops me and says,“Honey, you must wake up every mornin’ and thank the Lord!” Sneakers rush politely as possible down concrete steps into a yard of needles, then pavement. Pass the Methodist, Baptist, Christian Scientist and Episcopalian churches. In the distance I see a bandanna and barefoot shoes. He holds the handlebars of his one true love. Never my hand. Laces tied I pound on.