"Camden"

A man sits on his stoop of forty five years
He fought in two wars, came back flush
He bought this house by the river
Red brick, same as the others, two stories
Made it his home, raised two children,
Smoked cigarettes and cooked, made love
Fought, too, and maybe took a swing
More than he should have, but those were the times

The block around him began to fall apart
His children grew up and out, and his wife
Lost her mind, lost her memory, saw pictures
Of the family boating on the Delaware
And commented how those people
Lived such a luxurious life in pictures,
Looked at this man with the unknowing delirium
Of a woman waiting for death

Now he lives alone, and is too old
To work down at the docks,
Which have closed down, anyway
Most of his row has been bulldozed
But his house, two from the corner,
Is still standing with both its neighbors
A small outcropping of brick held fast
Amidst the cold river of urban decay

His windows have fallen out,
And the VA office won’t lend him money
So he has boarded them with plywood,
His home now mirroring the vacant shells
To his left and to his right
His children no longer visit
And his only company is the rats
Drawn to his enclave of domiciles
By the remanants of whores and drug addicts
Seeking shelter in his crumbling neighbors

So this man sits on his stoop
Its cement worn from children, from work
From a generation of silent passage
And watches a few kids, far too young,
Play ball in the street
Wondering where out there his life went


"North Philadelphia"

A man bounces down the block
Past burned out homes and grown over lots
Where not so long ago families ate dinner
Prayed before bed, children sat cozy
Wrapped in towels still dripping with suds
Glowing red in winter’s condensed cold

Now, there is just this man
Bobbing like a feral rodent, skin black as soot
He looks straight ahead punching
Left, left, right, left;
Jab, jab, pow, jab
He fights down the street
Weaving through a neighborhood
Falling backwards in rot