DEAD ROSES

A Poem by Rene Velez

I remember the leaky ceiling 
and the roaches, dead roses 
in the window of the old 
abandoned flower shop, 

the smell of weed 
in the project halls, the 
elevator ding after every floor 
the fifty's decor, cheap 
paint peeling off the walls, 
and 
the sound of hip hop, 
and the constant police stops, 
on the neighborhood crew 
chill'in on the avenue, 

dominoes and cards 
by the basketball yard, 
D.J.'s pulling power from 
street lamps for their 
summer jams, 

kids scrapping cans 
on the cement, controlling 
water pressure from the 
fire hydrant, while others 
stand across the street 
waiting to get wet, 
without permission 
and with no regrets.