The first of 155 poems about the Beltline by Lee Butler.

Gathering the girth of my phoenix city
breadths and lengths convey themselves on
the concrete path with wheels, feet, blades.
Their shirts declaring beliefs, attitudes,
their bottoms showing wiggle, angles.
Some are so wired up they do not mark
bicycle bells, huffing dogs nor runner's pace.
The sentinels admonish the loud, fast and littering.
The Couples caught on each other's fingertips or
walking adjacent, breaths in unison.
The Ones keeping pace with selves
sunglasses obscuring their gathering thoughts.
The Trios and Quintets flowing, stepping, bumping
the second and third vying for position.
The String for Tourists, fingers pointing
questioning, oohing, aahing while I silently agree.
I reach Irwin
A revolution around the yellow guidepost,
my boyfriend and I head back to our Monroe beginning.