People have
lived and died by these streets.
There, on
the sidewalk, a pile of clothing
And no one
in attendance.
There,
that’s all the proof one needs. Sirens
Blare all
hours, day and night, someone is dying,
Not dead yet,
but soon perhaps.
See, what
more proof does one need? These are
mean
streets, dream streets, merely a roadway
to get one from
here to there.
The young
man on a skateboard, in and out,
dodging
traffic, the hobbling old man fading
away on a
hot summer’s day.
There is no
real beginning here, and no defining
End here either.
The living are ignored and they
Cart the
dead away.
An Avenue is
what it is, a chance but necessary
Passageway.
And it’s the hope of getting through
Which paves these
potholed streets with intention
On any given
day.
Chris
Hanch 6-25-15
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