Silence blankets
the 19th Century homes
on this gentrified street
that once hovered
on the brink of decay.
Summer’s dusk falls
and the city’s heart settles
into evening’s routine:
the preprandial drink,
child’s report of school,
six o’clock news, dinner
from the Aga, microwave
or nearest deli. 

An older woman walks
a wolfhound in the park,
pauses for a deposit,
picks up the excrement,
while three pugs frolic
through their nightly outing
and a passing Mercedes
tootles a greeting.

No gangs run in this area,
no graffiti adorn the walls.
The stench of garbage
or urine does not offend,
but a darkness emerges
when babies sleep
and screens flicker:
a drunken stumble,
cry, thud; hands grope
for satisfaction that is taboo;
a belt becomes a whip or noose;
a fist flies, perhaps a bullet,
and blood splatters.