Poetry of Issue #8        Page 38

Remnants of a Kinder World

The sun glazes each surface, pours out light.
Beyond the sky, the roads remember.
The old buildings, the children skipping, playing hopscotch.
They have moved to grayer neighborhoods,
The ones with empty lots and torn-up sidewalks.
They wind up sleeping on cots, dining in church basements
The courthouse façade glows in the late afternoon
But doesn’t give off anything that looks like justice.
Two older women wait for the bus, leaning on canes
Heads bowed. A man gets out of a black car
And curses as they speak in low tones.
They cannot wish fervently enough for home.

Think back to gentle winds
Old movie houses, tiny children
Running in the streets
Knowing to go home when the lights come on.
Cats peer out from low windows
Near bowls of grapes and oranges.
Your only wound has been bound up at the hospital.
Whole families sit on building stoops drinking tea
All your books are in the tall bookcase
Intact, no burnt pages.