Drunk with the dew, dumb with the weight
We watched the towers fall through film and dust
The stores sold out of flags, brave children pushing in line
To prove the love of a father who would prove to give them up
Now we’re down at the fountain, and there’s war in the skies
And we’re calling down the Peace of The Lord
I lean into the idling truck. It smells like burnt oil and cologne
He drones: “I killed a bunch in the last one. Can’t wait to kill more.”

Bathed in the sweetness of cut grass, speckled with red clay and defeat
We drain cans of purple nectar, cleats clicking on the sidewalk
We, soft boys from the leafy mountain, shadow the cut-up sons
Of the concrete valley, who spit and cuss and revelate like men as they talk
Will the cop-calling colonists hear the ghostmen talking about that All-Star game?
The sneers and slurs from the visitors’ dugout at the raggedy shoes Darius had on?
At Bo’s gentle air? At Sameer’s daddy’s accent? The way Ricky tore off after them?
Bat crossed behind scarlet neck: “Man, you got to show out for your own.”

Nail my feet down, down to the Southside of town
Bend my back into it: the 24th Street viaduct
Watch my hair grow long and tangle up
In the smoke still rising from the stacks
Encase my tongue in steel
In case I ever dare to say
“I’m stuck.”
Shrouded in black, suckling on cigarettes
Crammed into our girlfriends’ hand-me-down jeans
Our arms are crossed, heads nodding to every song
Like we already know, or just don’t care, what it means
And, at his post on the corner, John: thick matted beard and torn heavy coat
His face contorted by voices. The wounded dudes are all cracking up
I fall quiet and watch him silently read off the transmissions
The last shouts of children falling through the fading Southtown summer dusk

Nail my feet down, down to the Southside of town
Bend my back into it: the 24th Street viaduct
Watch my hair grow long and tangle up
In the smoke still rising from the stacks
Encase my tongue in steel
In case I ever dare to say
“I’m stuck.”