My privilege was a vehicle
For departure
Over the broken roads
That the MTA
Spent hours delivering me
Past gutted houses

Today Father Bob reminded
Our now creased faces
Among the velvet cushioned pews
In the space that
Paints our dreams
That we are forever indebted
To silent benefactors that paved our way
Out of West Baltimore

If he had remembered me
When we processed by
For the last time
I’d have told him
Of my life’s work—
for no one to feel inferior
Under the weight
Of borrowed dreams

For it is owed every soul
Traversing these roads

They say you cannot
journey home again
But you should
To confirm
How you left
In the first place