almost seem to creak with a good wind
especially when the porches are filled with people
and at night
away from the lights
walking the streets
when all else is quiet
you'll hear fronds sweeping
over the sidewalk
whispering voices
many languages
a lone guitar or mandolin
a taste of saltwater on your lips
these streets have comforted
castaways
drifters
pranksters
lonely planet searchers
of beauty
--- e b bortz
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