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Half the block is at funerals
As my blossoms glisten heedless spring.
I can vouch for millennials
as if I know, in middle age, a goddamn thing.
How would I know what it means to live
in a city where fewer murders
is a goal you have to give
a shit to rise to, like a welder on a girder.
I have carpeted with bougie style my ruts

and brought comfort to those I love–
every leader here’s a racist or a yutz,
I don’t know the party I’m a member of.
How do I know what others live through daily
crying, in testament not mine, “Eli, Eli”?