a bird sings on franklin street

a bird sings on franklin street

the snow has melted in milwaukee,

trash once hidden out of view

is now plain all along bradley road,

franklin street is a side street on the west side,

it’s a better street than most.

it’s early spring and patches of grass

and weeds emerge in front of apartment buildings.

concrete crumbles, screen doors battered,

and eyes peer through slanted blinds,

as I study the addresses on franklin street.

I make no excuses and find your front door,

you and I stay outside

because your mom is high

and doesn’t want visitors,

we sit in orange chairs

you found in a dumpster by the library.

I talk about redemption and grace.

you explain to me what it means to be a black man

in milwaukee and the united states.

we think we understand each other,

but we both casually change the subject.

sunshine in march is something

everyone in the midwest understands.

it feels like ivory hope in shades of gray.

today the sun is shining on franklin street,

and the sun seems to make anything feel possible.

as we sit,

with the sun on our backs,

talking and laughing,

we feel like we could be friends.

suddenly, from an overgrown cypress bush,

a bird sings on franklin street,

I wonder if we hear the same song.

CC ~ October 2022