Stern pavement, the hard
flat slap, footstep of a Converse high top.
Smattering of voices,
ghetto plainsong. Old men
sit on milk crates and play
chess. They gossip, a feminine edge.
A pigeon scurries to the curb,
pecks at crumbs
spread by a 'do rag-sporting mama-san.
She trucks her bottles and cans
through this town scoured of ghosts,
where history holds its breath in unseen rooms
or sometimes waves from rooftops
to an unfortunate few.
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