It’s just Tuesday evening
as spring melts into summer
along a road called Good Hope.
The Koreans’ store on the corner
at V Street
does brisk business in big brown
bottles
and small glass stems;
merchants from half a world away
collect crumpled green
behind shields of Plexiglas.
Four old men, brown and gnarled
like limbs of scrawny shade trees
sit on upturned milk crates.
On a fifth box,
cards are flipped
in a game of whist;
the men chatter, growl, laugh
and sip from brown-bagged bottles
as their daily contest rages on.
On Sunday mornings,
this corner blooms with color;
men in their reverent suits of blue and
black,
and women plumed in rose, gold, and
periwinkle
pour from the stout mahogany doors
of Corinthian Baptist Church
and only the children
notice the clouds
which form pictures of sailing ships
cruising a baby blue sea.
But this is Tuesday
and the lead gray sky
drips with hints of rain;
the cards on a milk crate
are traded with dice
and the old men chatter, laugh
and sip from brown-bagged bottled.
This could be Milwaukee,
Oakland or Baltimore;
the same buses and trucks
rumble along blistered pavement
and one old man
wipes sweat from his face
with an oil-stained rag
while merchants from half a world
away
close their iron gates
and speed away
in cars and vans
to homes in the suburbs
a world away
from a road called Good Hope.