In the winter, this street seems hidden.
All that one might see is white snow turned black.
It is the snow that hides the broken sidewalks,
covers the graffiti like a closed journal of old gangs and slang and talks.
The winter wisps away the birds that live on stale fast food,
and makes the kids who joyride their rusty bikes stay inside,
hidden away from all their summer crime and games and
love and drugs.

Winter pushes out the life that paints the division in this town.
Each soul that roams this route can hear
the voice of summer when it comes around.

Summer sounds like heavy music that lasts a second driving by.
It sounds like men that holler to their best friend's sister,
and mothers scolding their daughters
as they wine and yell and cry.
Summer smells like chicken, garbage, ****...
and it tastes like too much freedom.
The daylight grows stronger and the nights get louder,
so fathers stay out longer, drinking far past early hours.

But summer shows a smile from an older brother to his sister.
He takes her hand and slowly,
and walks her across this busy, lonely parade of feet.
They head towards their worn down home - a mile and a half too close,
to this broken and divided street.
And the road to heaven takes weeks to walk.