Prest Street
It’s all uncles and cousins, proud black men
of urban banter in a small backyard,
car parts in a strange box that stains. I watched
those rough hands rummage
through pieces scattered about: grease-dirt,
toil-musk
and Pops pointed at the engine, the middle part, saying,
This is where it all happens, son, cigarette
in the corner of his mouth, death
in his body like a bad lung or DNA inscription,
an altering crave to an unhealthy consumption. But
who knew then how close the steep grave
was to the house that …
