I wish I could,
like some, forget,
and never anguish,
nor regret,

dismissive, free
to roam the street,
no matter how
the visions meet.

Remembrance is
a neighborhood
where convicts live
with great and good,

its roads of red,
uneven brick,
whose surfaces â€"
both rough and slick â€"

spread out into
a patchwork plan.
Sometimes at night
I hear a man

vault past the fence,
and cross the yard,
my door chain down,
and me off-guard.

He curses, threatens,
pounds the door.
I'm wedged between
the couch and floor,

ungainly, barefoot,
limp and pinned,
scared of the dark,
without a friend,

with only one
clear thought, that I â€"
like him, like you â€"
don't want to die.