On this side of the sign
the faces of gray and weary people
dread the passing of tired feet to work.
A breath of big city leans in through the open window.
Rusty, dirty, deep-fried air
welcoming old Sedans along the streets of
Norwood and Oakland,
The Oasis Club and Jazz Room,
Ohio slums.
Dilapidated houses gate the sidewalks and black cracked tar.
Fallen bricks have fallen where?
Every corner and panel is in need of a fresh coat of paint
to sooth its gritty timbers.
This side of the sign
has been abused and killed.
The smoke of 500 packs
woven strong within the wind
has melted the minds of pedestrians,
who'd rather be near the Lake.
On the other side of the sign
Erie strokes eager cheeks,
pats the tops of wishful heads
seeking driftwood, shells,
and old molten rocks.
As they skip along the sandblasted shore
they all regret not bringing a camera.
Though they drink the cool air
to relieve their parched throats,
refreshed to be on this side.

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