On Sherbourne Street

I am at home in a high-risewhere at night the voice of being humanis a siren blare or a drunk crying fucksomething or other on Sherbourne Street.Where I live humans make their own dangerand the earth is hardly implicatedin our calamities: the man who tumblesmore storeys than he has years,and the girls on Isabella who are dyingeach night in the arms of Corydon.Security men wear Kevlar vestsand follow a German Shepherd on a chainthrough the hallways of my building.The old sisters next door recallwhen this was a desirable address:the doorman wore a kind of livery thenand helped with parcels.In St. James Town, the Caribbean gangsand the Filipinos watch one other,skirmish, speak of war that may come.My friend says I am mistakenin thinking this place affordable.But I say there is witness amid decay:the street blossomsin placards and buttons to savethe hospital from budget cuts,and the church refurbishesMary and Bernadette in their grottofor worshippers who pass at morningand touch the stone.