He knew the around of the block. His city
in a square. He recognizes sidewalk cracks,
stains from blood and stores still offering
candy for a dime. He claims the lights on his
corner turn green with his snap, even beggars
know him by name when shipments are in town.
Some friends are memories while
resting in broken dreams or on forearms
with names and dates faded by the sun.
The lullaby of Broadway means nothing over here
where rattling contempt soaks up lives in the
square of the block, keeping hold of backstreet
shadows and broken neon signs.