The Neighborhood

I wish I could,
like some, forget,
And never anguish,
nor regret,

Dismissive, free
to roam the street,
No matter how
The visions meet.

Remembrance is
a neighborhood
Where convicts live
with great and good,

Its roads of red,
uneven brick,
Whose surfaces –
both rough and slick –

Spread out into
a patchwork plan.
Sometimes at night
I hear a man

Vault past the fence,
and cross the yard,
My door chain down,
and me off-guard.

He curses, threatens,
pounds the door.
I’m wedged between
the couch and floor,

Ungainly, barefoot,
limp and pinned,
Scared of the dark,
without a friend,

With only one
clear thought, that I –
Like him, like you –
don’t want to die.

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The Neighborhood