On our block
the late afternoon light
is gone all too quickly,
wind kicking backup
to a song of inevitable night.
The wreathe on the front door
sags, its plastic dogwood petals
looking out with longing at the sky-
tossed branches. Cars pass
indifferently, take the stop sign
at the corner like a held breath;
down the street children scream
and giggle. Someone rolls the emptiness
of a supercan past the eyes of a window.
Around the corner, a man’s dark laugh
barks through the alley.
Weeds grow between herringbone brick
at the speed of sunny violence.
No one is coming,
or going, set in their skinny row
houses like children in sandcastles.
No one is home. Or out on the porch steps
that make do for porches. No one
blinks at the sound of gunfire.
No one looks, or waves goodbye.
Like everyone else, we are all just
on our way.