Showing up on a street corner
Blasted by the poverty and violence of West Baltimore
Praying again
Pleading for another victim
Of the unholy trinity
Racism, poverty, violence
Praying for too many young men
Too many grieving mothers
Too many hands that held a gun
Pointing and piercing a soul on the sidewalk
Mylar balloons fade on strings
Tied to a light pole
Grounded and girdled by empty whiskey bottles.
Too many, too many
Sitting shiva at this gritty memorial
Will our presence matter?
A group of suburban well-wishers
Praying over blocks of rowhouses
That none of us will ever have to inhabit?
Will our prayers caress the despair?
The balloons? The bottles? The blood?
Neighbors stare at us from nearby porches
Wondering how long the caress will last this time
Before the next bullet shatters the embrace
And sends blood into the streets
And drains blood from the neighborhood.
We must not simply caress and leave
We must allow ourselves to be caressed and caressed
By the despair, by the desolation, by the destruction.
Poverty hugs and chokes you
--unless you can push it away and escape its grasp.
When poverty is all one knows
One takes every caress one can get
No matter the source.
May we choose to caress even a sliver of hope
That bleeds and bleeds and bleeds
its way from the pavement up to the palm of the hand
Caressing the gun ready to strike again.
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