Hill District (Pittsburgh)

On Thursday night
I fell asleep
early and dreamed
again about Pittsburgh.

I was alone on the cracked
sidewalks of the Hill District.
In the dark horrors of Forbes
Field now fallen,

a Black man appeared before me.

He asks me, in a hushed tone,
what I knew of the Alabama roosters.
I stood silent. I recognized him,
though he seemed drunk, I knew him.

August Wilson.

He looked at me, through me,
and put his arm on my shoulder.
He moved his lips to my ear and said;

“We are in the Hill District my boy,
you and I... witnesses to this Black September
this day will be remembered for the Predawn
Star-time shine.'

He offered up a silver flask of what he called,
“furious catch-up booze.”
I drank it down in three hard shots-
The Monongahela, The Alleghany, and The O.

by John Farrell

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