Pacing My Neighborhood, Midtown Atlanta

by Jude Marr

On Marietta Street, an old light pole rusts through

and falls, wind-whacked, across snaggletooth

sidewalk. I step over wires to where broken

pavers heave out of Georgia’s red earth: traffic snaps

at my heels as I cross the street on green, seeing no one

but the man who sells umbrellas

on downpour days—

            he asks me for a dime. His hand

contains a fractal wave of coins, as proof; his palm seams

ancient as Tigris and Euphrates—

                        I move smoothly as a jointed

doll along Hollowell, past the teen who capers

round my aging self, his body beautiful, his mouth full

of honey—I’m not real—

                   by the Mobil station

there’s a package store sells vodka by the quarter pint

in plastic bottles. One woman, liquored up, pushes

a damson hand against my face. You got ID? she asks. Show me

ID—

         I’m on Lowery now. This is my street. Boarded

homes, fragile as leaf-skeletons; oak-shaded, empty lots; porch

life; preachers. Can I give you a pamphlet? No? Okay.  Jesus loves you

anyway—

           unrequited, I ignore my cracked stair, my mailbox

hanging by a nail, and pace on—

                               left onto Boone where, close

to the dollar store, a yard contains players with a stake

in every game; the host nods as I pass. ’Sup, sister? he says, graceful

as a man who owns his house, who knows my place—

                                  his dress shirt

radiates. Blinded, I nod back.