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No one is home, but the street lights are on
they are the closest thing we get to stars
in the slums of this city, they glow like sunsets
down the way is a rail road track, my alarm
for every Sunday I actually wanted to sleep in
On the other side of those tracks lies a c luster
of homes, a dead end street that never seemed
so alive, colors like carnivals plaster the pavement
childish dreams of chalk worlds and kingdoms
pretty pictures and hopscotch line the side walk
beats of cyphers blast from subs in the back of
lowered cars, with lyrics of those who never came close
to being heros, from the kitchen is the aroma of
soul food, sweetness of cornbread, smoke of red beans
and earthy tones of collard greens, it smells like family
more like a home than my house has ever felt to be
but there is a boy on my bus who lives there
he always got something to say like,
"man ain't got nuttin waitin fo me dere"
"I cum from nuttin " but where the doors are always open
and drive ways are only preludes to family reunions
it is a home that some can only wish on
street lamp stars for, and I wonder
if he lived on this side of the tracks
if he would see things differently



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