You have hope for the neighborhood.
Flower baskets are going up.
They are getting watered,
but the round black BBQ grills
remain cold and still,
like eyes of dead cats
scattered in backyards,
they no longer see their families.
It is summer.
Where used to be the sound
of skateboard wheels on asphalt,
bike wheels catching gravel,
wind spitting in a car’s cracked wing vent,
now, just needle fuzz at the end of a 78.
Every once in a while,
someone walks down your street,
listens only to the soundtrack in their ears.