The Sound Of Death Poem by Bill Munn

I hear the sound of death
stalking alleys
under the elevated
and down along the river.

It is in the clatter and roar
of trains and traffic
in footsteps behind me
out on the wharf

And in darkened doorways
where grey-black men, wine-smelling,
seek relief from the cold
that is their reality.

In the night-streets under the el
and down along the waterfront
everybody knows
the sound of death

is mostly black.