Harlem (pt 4)

I could hear each in the night.
One was a red trill of urgency on wings.
One was the low tremor of an airship.
One was the frantic sound of a tragic fire engine.
One was for night delivery.

I gingerly placed my hand on the grime
Wiped away the filth like hardened tears
and read the accounts of the hardened culture.

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