For My Grandmother’s Buffet Table

The revolution has moved out of my house.
It now lives on Baywood Street. Over the Heights
of Stanton
boundary line. In Pittsburgh,
order is defined within heart
beats. One block changes

everything.

Not even a year ago, my friend said people still talked
foolishness. Don’t live in that neighborhood,
you’ll have to drive through that area to get there.
That’s what they said. But, foul death drug welfare riddles
a street over the demarcation point
this classy place defines. My very

own address. My part of Mellon
is soft undulant ripe. Their part,
the part above the invisible,
ululates an unremoveable ghetto stench.

The section I have carved from this Mellon
Street folds with familiarity. Place, we all have one
on this block. Helen makes the cakes...mostly
southern style pound cake. Crispy outside
light, fluffy roll-in-the-mud-pig-style

with happiness middle.

Jen’s massage table is always ready for the workers
not posh enough to go to her downtown spa.
Rush, he’ll bring you wine from the fruit of your backyard
tree. Walter swishes a fancy cement sidewalk
or lays a precise ceramic tile. But, more importantly,
he and his girl Robin will pray you up right and groovy.

Mary will do your taxes, if your not too private;
Liz’ll hook up your investment accounts if you got the you-know;
Molly will breed your heirloom tomatoes.
Alison will smudge your house of demons

and ghosts.

She is a priestess. We are all initiated in the ways
of neighborhood. Even though we live
on the wrong side of a line nobody can see.

We are the revolution that sings,
who are the people in your neighborhood?
That magic wand unity contraption has moved to Baywood Street.
The sticks and planks upon which A. Philip Randolph,
Tom Mboya, Julius Nyrerere and countless neighbors
ate freedom...
gone

to an illusion.
Cave Canem sister/brother-hood
realized through the hope of infants.

Let us pray, the wood sings the same song.

Thank you and God/dess bless you Terrance & Yona.