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The street I live on is dying
By Rudolph Lewis
There’s a
summer-league basketball court, rec center,
just right up across
the street where I live, hoppers come.
The sun is hot in the
long evenings. But they don’t live on
this street like
politicians who stay elsewhere. Down on
Whitlock, on a pole,
blue light flashing—across from a Korean
Cut-Rate that used to
belong to Little Willie, now in his 90s—
snapping me with a
bottle in a brown skin bag, boys in baggy
pants & long t-shirts
they got stories of rollers & snitches.
My neighbor on my
right he died a year ago My neighbor on
my left just moved the
other day—junk scattered in the alley
out back. Down a
little, old man with vicious dog. Houses
boarded up down by
Retreat. There are no children who laugh
on this street. I
heard a noise down in my kitchen, one man
in the alley with a
shopping cart, another at my iron door with
crow bar, bending, I
ask him what the mf he doing—he did not
run he thought the
house abandoned. I said man get the fuck out
my yard. He walked
slow back to the alley & his shopping cart.
This street I live on is dying as my hair grows
gray and thin . . . |