fading sirens

it was there
in the gray streets
where humbled women swept beige sidewalks
with stiff brooms, worn, on one side
tho the stains
of poverty’s pooled, switchblade russet
still remain
it was there–
where black men, in crisp, white hats
ambled down midnight’s wide boulevards
their inmost thoughts– never known
tho they swaggered, and tho they swayed
there, where neglect still grows
tall, and sprawling, untended
in broken-bottle lots
casting long shadows
over those fallen
there, where infants still cry
inside distant, squat-brick buildings
like the fading sirens
which had passed us all by
there, where some children played
and some, forever stayed
inside dark apartments
peering out wood-frame windows
it was there–
in the trash-can alleys
of youth’s epihany
where all the poems
were first born
red and screaming
into the bleakness


gnite writer-folk people

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