Down deep, the Baltimore night
side streets hum like a Mississippi porch




-they whisper-
Creaking rocker on rotting wood




-deterioration-

a shadow casts over rusting fire escapes
clinging nostalgic brick walls;
pleasant days looming over
like playground bullies
dangling the thing most desired
just
out
of
reach
Rattle, mumble

Sway forward, sway backward
Baltimore baby Christ
Swaddled in a holy sleeping bag.
Your unsung manger, your invisible cross—
Herod and Pilate high five—
Bethlehem backstreets, Jerusalem brick walls
where you die.



-creaking rocker-