the walls here are thin
because we can't afford
to build them any stronger.
we can't afford to spend money
to test smoke detectors,
or to build new fire escapes.
if this building
goes up in flames,
we have accepted that
we will all burn with it.
we can't afford to
spend money on
our children's safety.
but even if we could,
would it matter?
money can buy teddy bears
and pretty flower bouquets.
money can beautify
our roadside memorials,
but lit candles and
decorated street corners
can't bring back the
children who died there.
every night, I hear the sirens
of an ambulance speeding
through our streets.
sirens are the lullaby
that this city sings to our children,
and to our children's children.
if I didn't hear them
when I close my eyes,
I would be afraid.
because no sirens
does not mean that
there is no crime.
no sirens means only
that no one has come
to clean up the scene.
someone told me once,
that in suburbia,
in the neighborhoods
where the houses are
built with thick walls
and strong foundations,
and the neighbors fight
over who can buy
the fanciest car,
and those fights end
with snarky comments
instead of gunshots,
their children
fall asleep listening
to the sound of crickets
instead of sirens.
in those neighborhoods,
they do not raise their children
to be afraid of drugs
and death and violence.
they raise their children
to be afraid of our children.
our children are buried
six feet beneath the ground,
before their children
even learn the meaning
of the word "death."
