What Do You Hear Now, Walt Whitman? (3)

3rd section of extended poem What Do You Hear Now, Walt Whitman?

3

I can say the soiled sidewalk feels tender,
somehow serene to the troubled tennis shoe,
tearing apart with each step on the troubled path.
Because parallel parking means poverty in these parts,
and the broken glass of liquor stores and the faded glory of allies,
the yellow golden slow shimmer of a faded streetlight -
it all blinds you with bleakness, shuts you out, locks you in,
tells you no, nothing more, I'll tell you when I've had enough.

It only depressing if you let it in
or you let it bleed beneath your skin
like the veiny cracks in the sidewalk frowning at the faint city skyline above.