S.C.

When you step off the Metra,

you’d better be ready.

Shoulders back, even respiration.

Steady stride, no sudden movements.

Stretch that peripheral vision

around every alley, every dark corner,

and don’t forget the group across the street.

Over at the Citgo, they’re doing their thing.

Move along, you’re not buying.

Turn the corner, past the first boarded-up store.

Bonus points for staying on the asphalt patches,

not the weedy cracks full of broken glass.

Past the intersection where “They took my boy,”

 blank concrete betraying nothing.

The high school’s garden is looking good,

corn and tomatoes flourishing in the heat.

Turn left, you’re almost there now,

one eye out for students and their little ones,

always a bright spot.

There’s the decomposing blue jay,

been on the sidewalk for about a month now.

Finally, the church, rising overhead

in Gothic splendor from times long gone.

Look, you’re here!

Ring the bell in the nondescript alcove.

Another morning, another long day at work.

At the end of your time,

you can try to forget,

as blinking blue police cameras

change to carefully-kept blandness.

But you won’t get far.

It stays with you.

Forever.

For always.