In Pittsburgh, I walk under a canopy
I once jogged with dogs. Now, Shady Avenue oaks
weep on this sidewalk. White nationalist violence
is fueled by a white supremacist. I return to a town
where I once ran book club for teachers:
I Never Saw Another Butterfly. Number the Stars,
my saying: “So this will never happen again.” Now
squirrels in Squirrel Hill do their stop-start-stop. I used to
buy bread at Five Points Bakery a block down, now
plastic-wrapped bouquets fan into a mountain. Students
I once read poetry to at John Minadeo School sang
at this congregation. Now children lay down their paper
doves. I pass names of eleven souls: Richard, Rose,
brothers Cecil & David, Joyce, Jerry— customer at
my brother’s store, couple Bernice & Sylvan, Daniel,
Irving, Melvin. Breath falls, petals of flowers.
I used to plan lessons with teachers
at Smallman Street Deli. Two weeks ago on Facebook,
I saw one of those teachers standing on that street,
protesting he who would not denounce hate. I walk back
to my car avoiding a leaf blower. Someone
asks me for directions. I do not know. I walk behind
my old neighbors. I think of gun laws, teaching,
November, hope.
