The house on Tennessee Avenue,

like that one up on Beulah,

was gone in less than 30 minutes,

even though it had weathered

every storm in Chattanooga

for at least one hundred years.

The frame resisted the heat,

outliving the rooms that lay

charred and smoldering inside.

Green moss ignores

the No Trespassing sign, repainting the siding,

and the trees continue to deposit leaves into the awning,

no hands in autumn to remove them now.

A maple tree still guards and shades the house,

even with some limbs missing

from the fire that disabled it

the first time this house burned.

 buds bursting defiantly through what remains,

lush leaves growing, growing.

A sign says Condemned,

but memories are still dwelling there–

the stench from a white hood

and sheet robe, once a dingy white, now

 burned black

 in the bottom of the Tennessee family’s cedar chest.

A sign says Do Not Enter

yet it does not stop the ancient spirits,

whispered intentions to burn crosses and men

as religious sport-

plans drifting up and down

the splintered staircase on sun rays

filtering through the missing roof.

Add it to another chapter of darkness

and retribution perhaps?  in Chattanooga

Add it to the history of the neighborhood

Underneath the shadow of Lookout Mountain,

named

St. Elmo.

And Bobby’s Barbershop Didn’t Make It

Bobby’s Barbershop chairs are lined up

 in the junkyard.

It is their cemetery, and this is

 their gravesite.

At certain times at night, you can catch

a glimpse of chairs revolving,

as if Bobby and the other barbers are standing behind them,

discussing The Man with invisible clients, asking

If Covid was a conspiracy to take away

all they had,

all they were.

Dreams are in this junkyard–

The American Dream, A Dream Deferred, all

of what Bobby once believed would create

happiness, would take him on a vision journey

to that road not taken,

the road he took…

and now it’s come to this.

The tickets out of wherever that pit

the dreamers tried to escape from,

are now torn and scattered all over,

tornadoes cannot even lift and take

Over the rainbow.

Ticketed dreams lie in their own graveyard,

fading and indiscernible

under overcast skies.