Here, in this city,
death is not such an uncommon sound.
In fact, it is an adjective,
a descriptor that outsiders hurl
effortlessly, as if the word
is void of its weight,
as if it does not carry
the mother who watched
her son die on her stoop,
felt her late night bus rides,
to the IHOP across town
disappear into the wail,

In my city, and your city,
we take solace in
the pleasant October afternoon
when the brick row homes
shimmer with faded sun,
and old, weathered streets,
constructed by ancient hands,
built over, layered upon,
whistle with crinkled leaves
collecting in their gutters