Up at the top of the hill,
at the top of Ledyard Street
where a few big houses are,
they are saying their prayers.

Up on the hill,
lower down but still up there,
at the crossing of Ledyard and Lesser
where rundown gentility is obvious,
they are wringing their hands.

At the lower shelf of the hill,
where Leper Road merges with
what came above them, with what streets
led them to here — Ledyard, Lesser,
all the rest — they are done
with their praying,
finished with their wringing.

On Main Street now where
the Salvadoran restaurant ekes out
a living, where the bakeries
close early and the tired workers
hurry home, where you are now —

on the main street where
nothing haunts the brains of
the unhoused like memories
of the times they had on
Ledyard, Lesser, and Leper;
insistence on failed nights
of pledged commitment
and a whispered promise
to do better next visit
comes empty from your lips.

You know, right now,
that you will not come back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T