Fill me with the old words, let the old neighborhood
make me pulse with the past:
Cardozo, where are you now? Are you
still a dark fantasy, still saxophones on streetcorners,
basement bars and all those beautiful men
who wanted to sell me on crack, sell me on x, sell me on molly?
Sell me myself back, Brentwood.
Once there was a time when I stood on concrete balconies
and knew who I was.
And all of you-- my East African dealers, my
2Ls at GW and the sociologists from Howard and the
kids from Northwest who just wanted to be on the hill and
my men of the acronyms, take your pick, who just wanted to fuck
in the bar bathroom, tile to knees, hands shaking--
are so far from me now.
Once there was a time when I stood on federal land
and felt some sense of ownership
over myself, and my body, and my future.
I stand on a different riverfront now, though the same
polluted smells rise from dirty water
and I wonder whether Mayfair remembers me at all.