The Neighborhood

 I wish I could,
 like some, forget,
and never anguish,
 nor regret,

dismissive, free
 to roam the street,
no matter how
the visions meet.


Remembrance is
 a neighborhood
where convicts live
 with great and good,

its roads of red,
 uneven brick,
whose surfaces –
 both rough and slick –

spread out into
 a patchwork plan.

Sometimes at night
 I hear a man

vault past the fence,
 and cross the yard,
my door chain down, 
 and me off-guard.


He curses, threatens,
 pounds the door.

I’m wedged between
 the couch and floor,

ungainly, barefoot,
 limp and pinned,
scared of the dark,
 without a friend,

with only one
 clear thought, that I –
like him, like you –
 don’t want to die.

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