I saw them gather at the church.
I did not join them there.
God left Green Street
on a day in April
when black-gray clouds
intersected.
A fight on the street, or
in the school, the boy will
meet you there because
God grabbed his hat and coat.
He left the kids of Green Street.
The boy with the monitor
attached to his ankle
needed God on Green Street
long before he learned
to say “Fuck” at age four.
By five, he could
throw a punch.
By six, he’d
stolen bucks.
Most people I know
love when April comes;
a time when
flowers grow, but
daisies grow with the
weeds through the
concrete until the
old man at the end
of Green Street
grabbed his weed
killer, and he walked
to the cracks. The boy
with the monitor
attached to his ankle
kicked the old man in the groin, and
he left them there next to the weed
killer and the daisies and the weeds.
I saw them gather at the church on
the other side of town discussing
pleasant things from a plush pillow
life. I wonder if they ever heard of
Green Street, but God left it long
before it ever reached their ears.
By Rebecca T. Dickinson
Corrie's Season 