Last Mass

My privilege was a vehicle

For departure

Over the broken roads

That the MTA

Spent hours delivering me

Past gutted houses

Today Father Bob reminded

Among the velvet cushioned pews

In the space that

Paints our dreams

That we are forever indebted

To silent benefactors that paved our way

Out of West Baltimore

If he had remembered me

When we processed by

For the last time

I’d have told him

Of my life’s work—

for no one to feel inferior

Under the weight

Of borrowed dreams

They say you cannot

journey home again

But you should

To confirm

How you left

In the first place