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

-they whisper-
Creaking rocker on rotting wood


a shadow casts over rusting fire escapes
clinging nostalgic brick walls;
pleasant days looming over
like playground bullies
dangling the thing most desired
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-

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