I remember looking for mercy
not the street but the hospital
did someone really tell me Grove Street
that was in a day when memory was alive
it seemed a heartless place
where the hopeless sought out modern miracles
the hypodermics were still made of glass
finely machined by diamonds
but there was barbaric medicine
sleepless nightmares for a dying giant
and rites of passage for a boy
I turned and ran from the smell of despair
I never went back to Grove Street
a few years later the phone rang
my father died at home near his window
outside the dogwood bloomed again that spring
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem