Walking through That Old Bishkek Sorela Street

 

One of the things
that in Bishkek struck me most
were those heaved old walkways

by poplars’ roots from below—
and remembering, in my old native town,

those trees, perhaps planted then,
already cut, uprooted—
no threat to trip motion
or safety of the passerby—

even though one part
(where the soccer stadium was),
the trees still stood,

and, like comrades
from distant Kyrgyzstan,
upsetting the walking order,
rumpling up the ground—

and thus, poetically messing
with prosaic, pedestrian minds—

What other ways
do a soul—or a town—
so eager to make a point
of how they want, they need,
to reconnect with us?