What I Think About On Concord Street

Shielded by rusted guardrails— 
two lanes traffic-choked. 
Reggaeton from a smashed-in 
F-150, supplies stacked in the tarped bed. 
Tattooed biceps dangle out the windows. 
At the intersection of Gorman and Concord, 
a school bus screeches to a halt. 
The courthouse casts its shadow 
overhead. Five years ago, she exited 
the bus — fifteen, a rope of hair grazing
the small of her back. He watched her 
from the woods for a week, hand in pants— 
a knife at her throat, feet from her front 
steps, neighbors said. Took her to a swamp 
a mile away, did God-knows-what, 
and they all knew it was happening. 
Five years later, no one speaks of it. 
The traffic lights sway on their thin 
cords over the dead-end street.