I Live (Hour 18)

I live in the past years trodden down to memory,
images scattered amongst feelings 
that left off somewhere I never got to finish.
In the rain on the cars
and the shoes on the pavement, 
In music that spells out my bones 
like a familiar expletive. 

Where the church bells hang silent, 
suspended in their lonely towers,
lost beacons of reverence, 
casting down their ancient shadows. 

I live where the people shuffle like insects
scampering to higher ground, 
fleeing the flooding waterways 
that cut through our valley. 

I live In the old springs,
I lived when the paint was new, 
when people still talked out on the sidewalks
and the ginkgo trees reeked of cat urine 
when you passed directly under them, 
and the soup kitchen stayed open 
until after sunset. 

I live in the trampled white blossoms 
and cigarette butts. 
In the movie rental store, 
and the back alley that connected 
to the Irish bar. 
The grease of the fryers 
and the stench of open sewer grates flushed with rainwater. 

City blood is high in iron, 
the metals we inherit by breath and step
Cast anchors of the past that hold heavy to the heart.

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