Scope

What were they?
Some tree detritus,
like cornflakes in
the bowl of the gutter
but softly under my foot,
gentler than leaves,
a small golden shushing.

I am heavy-footed,
a stomper really, jolting
up the street. My eyes
jiggle as I walk, I say
when he asks why I
never see the world passing,
just a clutter of tree
litter, a graffito painted
in letters too thick to read.