Go the city of Detroit and watch the drive-bys
of old raggedy cars, coming from the ancient, dilapidated homes
that crumble under the bitter sun of stink of sewer streets
hiding the grey-faced children, their graffiti art
laced with delicate rhymes, expletives, a marvelous shrine
to the ghosts of Rosedale Park taking a heavenly walk.

Yesterday but not today is the best time to take a heavenly walk
to avoid the rat-tat-tat of Cass Corridor's drive-bys
where basketball masters fall under the ghetto shrines
hiding behind the walls of boulder-high dilapidated homes,
their side alleys covered with mini graffit art,
temporarily until the rain washes the chalk dust into the sewer streets.

But beauty is immortal, where vagrant kings rule on the sewer streets.
They push like mad on their heavenly walks,
remembering their own days of learning graffiti art,
practicing until they are old enough to drive-by
their creations, displaying their work in front of the dilapidated homes,
that stand like the blighted fortress of an iron shrine.

These prized little children make their own shrines
once upon a time until the sewer streets
begin hearing the demise of these dilapidated homes,
unable to move, unable to take a heavenly walk
along the blind edges of Belle Isle back to reality, to the drive-by
of nature snobs, oblivious to the decaying graffiti art.

It is easier to find an abandoned house than precious graffiti art
downtown, where casino machines sing with stolen money, a shrine
to slipping-down butterscotch dreams that you have to drive-by
to see, to win, to lose, to forget. See dirty coats but no sewer streets
to proclaim as golden territory, just hands waving, heavenly walks
to the rich folks, Detroit celebrities gone to LA and their lonely homes.

They forget the splendor of an eastbound Detroit with dilapidated homes,
suffering under the weight of chalk-dry graffiti art not found in a museum.
Only the sun runs with the heavenly walk covering up cracked windows,
waisthigh grass like shrines in a child's picture
with black thumb marks rubbing sewer streets,
swaggering with wonder toward a rapidly grave drive-by.

Sewer streets, dilapidated homes, a shrine to a flame-filled city, struck by decaying graffiti art.
Movers and shakes masking blood sent from God in a heavenly walk to end this drive-by.

--by Piper Davenport