sitting at my desk, waking up with coffee,
out the window two men in the street catch my eye.
one strikes the other in the face, closed-fisted,
bam
and knocks him out.
the man loses consciousness, laying there on the pavement.
a woman, barefoot, hair wrapped up, tugs
at the corner of his jacket,
helps him slowly get up,
bright red blood streaming from his mouth,
clutching his little black plastic bag
(the one the liquor store uses, down the street)
and staggers back, forth, and finally down the street.

last night, sitting in class,
Reno Hall,
profesor lecturing re prefrontal orbital cortext
we hear
bang bang bang bang bang bang
bang bang bang bang bang bang bang

on Livernois.
the class sits, silently, listening.
"Fireworks?", a White girl from
West Bloomingfield Township nervously suggests?
somebody chuckles.
"Nah, hon-ey", an older Black woman corrects.
"that weren't no fireworks."

is this place too dangerous...?
or just like any other...?
the problem with living with people
is that they are people.
the problem with serving people
is that they are people.
the problem with loving people
is that they are people.
until that is no longer a problem.

and yet, knowing that,
still I sit
missing Ponca Hills, where you can
step outside at night and see
every
single
star
that there is to see,
and in winter hear nothing
except the sound of snow falling,
settling,
upon snow.
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