by Luis G. Dato

I tread the stones you tread each day to school,
Now when the road impassable has been
To trucks that ply the town and coast between,
Dotted with rut and furrow, stagnant pool.
And I can tell it is not quite so cool
To walk it at high noon and keep serene,
Not venting on the President your spleen,
Unless indeed one is a built-in fool.

Your feet must have been hurt by roughened stone
And sharp dry mud, though far from this your wont,
The day’s routine, one hardly to enchant
Us to this era as we curse and sigh and moan,
But blessed be you that now I know your haunt,
And knowing it I do not feel alone.

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