Hill District (Pittsburgh)
On Thursday night
by John Farrell
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.
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
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.