Song for Anacostia
by Fred Joiner

the 94 hums
up the rough side
of Stanton.

open windows blare
drums in the pocket,
the breakdown
of the perfect groove.

Washington’s solo view

the 90 salsas across town
into the forgotten
bottom of DC,

a car alarm echoing
its protest on MLK

two porch griots wailing
their pain and pity.

two preachers
can be heard
through the sanctuary walls
one reading scripture ,
the other raptured in a moan.

the smell of last nights first drink
poured out in a crooning ballad
for the missed and missing
a song for a father,
a song for a mother unchilded,
a song for a child
playing ahead of the beat,

a nursery rhyme
for every teddy bear
rooted at a street sign.

this is sound of blues breaking
the broken, back together;
the sound of chaos, organizing;
the sound of breath forming
words in vinyl’s backspin

these are the sounds
gathered in blood,
shed for remission of
silence and sadness.