I walk down Dillon street,
sun baking cement
and aging wooden doors.

No grass grows in this
mania of row homes
and crowded restaurants
save the few brave weeds
peeking out of cracks
in the sidewalk.

Father Kolbe School:
stands as a rose growing
in the midst of this barren
bar-studded desert.

Dozens of children play
kickball in its roped off intersection:
theirs for thirty minutes a day;
laughter of future senators
and junkies clad in clean
pressed blouses and plaid jackets.

In these moments
they can shriek and relax,
so few years before they sweat
over non-sufficient funds and
that shaky feeling that comes
from the ache of more;

more money more coffee
more time.

I should know, my forehead
is often soaked to the bone.