Eye of the Hurricane

Every night I hear the engines rev, then tires burning black marks on the street.
And when the cars pause to take a breath, still silence bends its knee to light and heat
And noise: the booming echoes voice these works of fire sold by the shrewd Shrewsbury pyrotechnicians
To residents familiar with plot-lines and settings in The Wire: blue-collar workers, gang members, and beauticians.
These beautiful mortars join their sinister (gunshot) sister upon the moonlit soundscape of the city,
Though daylight is no guarantee of fist or knife as choice weapon, and none of these will make the crime more pretty.
A rage breeds here, though this year perhaps more subdued when compared to the national or global attitude.
This place has accumulated vile tragedies, now adding to the pile viral disease.
Yet in this chaos, sin, and pain, despite the picture seeming bleak
Here lies a gleaming lovers lane, here a spring and flowing creek,
Here the eye of the hurricane, a place for hope and joy to speak
And say not “I won’t, can’t, shouldn’t, haven’t” too
But simply, and beautifully, “I do.”

Photo by Julia Wanner

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Because Russ L asked

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