South Philadelphia

Heavy painted doors line the walks, like lids of a little girls’ jewelry box.

If you lift them a memory of music might spill out. Or, maybe, probably the echos of someone’s parents fighting.

Smoked glass panes, peeling paint and antique molding.

A small white dog is whining. A lot of small white dogs are crying.

Velveteen seats, car exhaust flocked coffee tables, your grandmother’s couch encased in plastic.

Must and dust, old perfume and aspirin.

Buttermint smoothed marble stoops for waiting. And for smoking.

Mostly for smoking.

Sun faded Mary’s peer out of living room windows and frown at the spent lotto ticket leaf fall.