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On the Street of the Bronx


Janeece Vance

On the streets of the Bronx
during Monday morning,
rush hour,
amusement and pain
overwhelms me...


as children run
trailing behind an ice cream truck
hands waving
mouths watering
and change falling;
as they all seek relief from the brisk hot sun.


as an angry "John" strikes "his woman"
she softly sobs
as his hand covers her mouth,
he retrieves "HIS" money from her bosom.


as I pass the homeless man on the corner;
he smells of sweat and urine
his hands outstretched
and his honest eyes meet mine.
With pity in my heart, I give what I can give.
But others walk by in disbelief,
and I know mine is not enough.


as a child, under the age of 13,
walks distortedly
toward the drug dealers on the corner
to satisfy his high.
My mother instincts kick in
to rescue him from his addiction.


as brothers are fighting brothers.
There's arguments, fistfights,
and weapons emerging.
An audience forms
encouraging those brothers
to "defend to the end!"
I close my eyes
on hopes of a dream.

I open my eyes,
I am...
And disrespected!

On the streets of the Bronx,
these are every day occurrences.
I see "my people",
I scream to "my people",
"Wake UP!!!!!"
on hopes of ending this cycle of disruption.

No one hears
No one chooses to take the blame.

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