Dream StreetI left her the house
and got a place on Torley. Each night the neighbors put chairs on the sidewalk, turn the TV face out, drink Iron City and watch the kids play in the street. I get home from work at 6 or 10 or 2, shower and then sleep with eyes open: a child shrieking on a hospital gurney, her spine filleted and straightened, the smell of burning in my hair, a new mother life-flighted from the mall, brain shifting in her head, crushed by bleeding while we watch. We drink coffee and wait while a father facing doom in our hands says good bye to his children; each day I pedal in over the Bloomfield Bridge, or drive when called at night, never knowing that it will get worse. |
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