As we walk down Sixteenth Street,
south past steady flow of traffic,
there is nowhere to cross.

We fear we’ll miss the service
at the cinderblock church steeped
in apple juice from day care,

in Joni’s aching ballads,
in words from the minister
who knew the deceased.

We contemplate not crossing.
We could just walk past
boxwood and brick ranches.

We could slip past this church,
past other churches, then storefront
funeral homes. We could

stop at the Jamaican bakery
just past the old Walter Reed.
We could turn around, go home.

Too far south of this street
we can’t cross is the city
people like us can visit:

the bridge with stone angels,
the one we crossed in cold weather
to sit with him at the Aster,

eat white pizza, drink boxed wine,
read poetry.