By Gail Morehouse

Listening closely to years gone by
Socio-economic justice is the residents’ cry
Amidst my porch’s residual energy
Stories of commoners’ struggles resound

Hot black coffee steaming morning beach fog as
Four loggers divvy the rent … $5 each.
One shares two planks, “Shelves for our plates over the sink,” and
Tucks away a ten for the wife and kids back home
… living on the brink.

Black coffee ‘n breakfast jerky. Conversations ensue:
“Union protesters were attacked again last night
One guy dead behind the loo.”
“The wife says our union plans are mere pipe dreams.”
“Homeowners on this street hate us, like we’re Billy Ghoul incarnate.”

Half-century into organized unions, protesters chant, “peace, not war!”

Black Power, flower power, Vietnam & the Black Hills occupation.
A drunken logger’s divorce crowds kids into this row house
… with a bathroom, unlike their old house.
CPS should be happy now.

Inviting other row house moms for coffee she bellows,
“I’ve got sugar,” over a hip-rider. “Milkman happen by here?” placing bottles on porch
And quickly rescues sun-scorched dresser from alley.
Neighboring mom sternly warns “Steer clear of homeowners, darnit”!
“They treat us like Billy Ghoul’s ladies of the evening incarnate.”

Three quarter century into poverty row, families pile in this Aberdeen ghetto.
Vagabonds vying for children’s beds – a dime bag, a rock or maybe some meth.
Billy Ghoul’s drunkards incarnate remain. With innocence lost,
Kids beat-box and rap their unheard atrocities in foul-mouthed rhymes,
Privileged homeowners shaking their heads and fists, “It’s the sign of the times!”

Today: My dog and I, my coffee and cat, alone on this little row house porch,
My bartering buddy’s evicted away and Occupy Wall Street carries the torch.
Birds puzzle over strange human quirks, our infected sense of community and
wireless networks.
As a homeowner is filming each passerby, hoping we’d all shrivel up-‘n-die.
My hearing ear recognizes the residual energies of injustice, Billy Ghoul’s resounding cry.