You’ve got no nerve to walk down this street
at night, but you know someone who did –
and phoned the cops
when he passed a man carrying a machete
on his way to the Avenue.

Why don’t you scream it
that you’ve been waiting on the same bus
that’s not going to take you
anywhere you planned on going.
If my grandmother were alive
during Covid and living off Truman still,
she’d be captive and when you got her going,
you’d know you pissed off the wrong woman.

But there’s nothing really to turn on
except a hydrant on a day so hot
you could fry an egg on the sidewalk,
but the wrong people need all the comforts
and the veneer of pity coats Admiral in
tents and wrinkled green plastic bags approximating the same
when the force shows up to haul away their makeshift village.

Makes it all seem so cruel that
someone – not anyone who could afford to cash it in –
bought the winning Powerball
that was sold at the gas station that serves
as a waystation to the denizens of a part of town
people call home for
its proximity to an intersection to hold a sign.