They live on city streets, these women of child-bearing years.
Often holding onto their youngest, an infant
From a time, an interlude, once ago.
These women, Latisha, Chessiree, Charmil, Renea, are fancy-named
But no fanciness surrounds them here.


They live on city streets, these women of hateful pride.
Often sauntering across pavement, dreadlock heads held high
From a time, a nasty slur, once ago.
These women, they leave the buildings behind, when they strut.
Breakfast dishes still crusty and piled in sinks, forgotten,
Plastic trash bags of soiled Pampers and food cans near front doors.


They live on city streets, these women, in Section 8 housing.
Often rummaging through purses, waiting for the Metro.
Old, discolored and ragged lottery tickets tossed away
From a time, a sure-win bet, once ago.
These women hold food coupons and hard-earned welfare checks
But gourmet foods weren't bought this week.


They live on city streets, these women, in high-walled confinement,
Often sitting on front-door stoops near community art collections.
Pock-marked brick: easels for graffiti paint-sprayed
From a time, an anger, once ago.
These word-filled, city street canvasses offer black-scrawl,
Weathered-down lines, faded with time.
But gunfire drilled through words of art: no signed and numbered edition here.


They live on city streets, these women of African descent,
Often standing in gossip groups, hands on hips, head jerking from side-to-side
From a time, a mother's language, once ago.
These women, they tell each other what-they-gonna-do, they-in-control,
Doing better without those men, those lazy, no-good men forgetting child support.
But fathers' love is not found here.


They live on city streets, these women, these heads-of-households,
Always wanting with their hands held out:
Medicaid, AFDC, SSI, Section 8, disability, relief, aid, subsidies,
From a time, a way of life learned, one generation ago:
Black then, the race name, not Colored or Negro.
These women, African-Americans now, they know city streets, they learned the way out.
But talking on cells they say the word is on these city streets.







~ © Lynn (lynnws@ntelos.net) ~


November 13, 2003


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