The West side of the street has gone downhill
and though it put up a steady fight
with the help of the do it yourselfers
who came and went with hardware store's
Spring clearances
there was no improvement project planned
that could repair old section 8
nestled with the endearing face
of a battered, sunglass shuttered, spouse
beside the white vinyl of the neighborhood church.
The West side of the street has gone downhill
and the mail boxes have been replaced
with strong boxes and little red
matchsticks of rubber clad iron bars
peeking out of cars where novelties and signs declaring
silly little things
used to reside and it is difficult to say
if it's because no one strolls during the day
to stop and see them and give a giggle
or if it's because of who strolls during the night.
The West side of the street has gone downhill
and bike frames, sans wheels, are rusting to gates.
Music loud enough to mistake it for music blaring
from concert capable stereos by bedside has replaced
the little voices
of hide and seek on Friday evenings and
to peek through the blinds of a window from the East
is to see the slow rise of a tide of white flags
and the children of beggars beating the aluminum
like a kettle drum band on a sinking ship.
