Walls whitewashed, over great works of art
splattered intricacies on derelict walls
red, white, black and blue,
graffiti tags, gang signs and sidewalk chalk grind
on the nerves of departments
already tired of salutary neglect.
Train tracks and missteps follow the beaten path
building unstoppable momentum
each wheel turn whistle blast
echoes gunshots a call and
re-re-re-sponse …

silence swallows should-be sirens but
tracks clatter, like
teeth chatter, like
the July sun isn’t hot enough, like
pretending the red is just spray paint, like
the red bandanna wasn’t an
angry cape
in the eyes of a bull-et.