A ripped open half empty loaf of yeasty white bread lay on the kitchen table of Two Thirty-Seven Lockwood. Directly above the table trapped in a single bulb kitchen ceiling light a horsefly endlessly circled desperately trying to escape it. On a couch a few feet away two children sat mesmerized in front of a rabbit eared snowy-screened television. Surrounding them was a room of mismatched furniture obscured by magazines, junk mail, pizza boxes and soda cans. The entire room shielded from the outside by tilted twisted venetian blinds. Upstairs their mother was entertaining a guest and they were on strictest orders not to bother her. Not to worry; the cartoon they were watching had their full attention. After it ended the younger of the two turned to her sibling and asked, “ What is a roadrunner?” “ I think it is a little bird that runs fast,” said her brother. She just starred ahead in silence. A tore open envelope lie on the floor beside them containing a telegram about their father at war in a place called Vietnam. Outside, two photographers from the United Press smoked and discussed the photographs they needed for a magazine article on the recent Baltimore riots. One wanted to venture further into the slums but the other pointed out a shot of this row house pretty much told the the story of the futility living here. That was forty-seven years ago and the photographic memory taken of the house remains virtually identical to the one taken in this neighborhood after this years riots. The mother passed from heroin addiction. An auntie rescued the children, and took them with her back to Atlanta. The boy is now a Doctor of Philosophy and his sister became a nurse not far from here. There is always hope.