The thieves called it Terminus.

It means end of the road.

They torched Pakanahuili,

tore down the Bankhead Projects.

They rebranded it Atlanta,

sold tomahawks to

tourists, diluted trap music

for the global markets.

Sometimes it feels like home.

Ms. Rosa's peach preserves.

Hugging necks at the church.

Taylor's Southern-fried drag shows.

But this deathless city

don’t mourn the front-porch laughter

or the sweet hickory smoke. It marches

on into the glass and the chrome.

The City trashed Mike's tent.

We picked his wet clothes

and mementos off the sidewalk,

loaded them up in the van.

Watching the rows of fortified condos

blur through the window, he says,

"I've lived here all my life.

Gonna die here if I can."

Now, some general died

over by the title pawn,

according to a metal sign.

Its paint is all chipped.

But the sign don’t say, and it’s hard to tell

from the deep red clay,

how many poor Georgia folks

are lying in that ditch

from the Battle of Atlanta.

The Battle of Atlanta.

The Battle of Atlanta.

The Battle of Atlanta.

La Raza streams from his backpocket—

Trump, Fox, NAFTA, el pared—

deep in a thicket by the

ruins of a shotgun-house.

The maestro ties the bandana

around his head. Lights a

smoke. Says, "Vato, they're always

trying to keep a working man down."

Some fool said a worker’s only as good

as their tools, but Summerhill breathes

the ghosts of the Rebellion

and the Washerwomen’s Strike,

and Jose Luis shows me how to

clear a kudzued acre

with a duct-taped machete, a rusty

hoe-axe, and a truckstop knife

like the Battle of Atlanta.

The Battle of Atlanta.

The Battle of Atlanta.

The Battle of Atlanta.

In a dark corner of the museum,

far from the blazing

corporate campaign of a

city too busy to hate,

a silver photo shows a multitude

swelling the sweet black

avenue, where now the rents

are like to make you faint.

Those college men searched the city’s

tattered skirts. I'm not sure where

they found his chariot--Hapeville,

or damn near to Coweta County--

but I read he'd said, Y'all,

when I fall, I don't want a

limousine to haul me.

Carry my body by mule and buggy

through the Battle of Atlanta.

The Battle of Atlanta.

The Battle of Atlanta.

The Battle of Atlanta.