I feel like a ripple in the harbor.
Throwing myself against
the Hull of your chest.
A place I used to call home.

Not far from Beason
liquid green
caresses silt that has
always pumped life
into this broken city.
A city where sirens and
church bells sound the same
if you just listen
to the hum of floating taxis
circulating you straight to
the heart of a
civilization learning to collect illumination.

I drag my feet along E. Pratt
listening to the whispers of our past,
a quiet riot in the distance.

Somewhere in this city
a woman is taking her son's hand
for the last time
a brother is tanking
his last free throw
somewhere
a daughter scribbles
her name in side walk chalk
one
final
time.

These children were the
city's flesh and blood.
Fells point in their bones;
a piece of Pigtown in every cell.

We've learned from
our mistakes that
burning down convenience stores
doesn't make life more convenient,
but owning a gun does.
What is the cost of protection
when you're not the one paying the price?

I hope that one day
we will build upon the ashes
and Light Street will burn bright again.