Friday, March 3, 2017

BROKEN CLOCKS

All the old peeling paint houses
in this neighborhood
are grinding to dust, their
Bricks falling under yellow,
billowing bulldozers, that pounce on
their prey that had the poor grace
of being for the poor.
Shoulder to shoulder, one could look
From yours into your neighbor’s windows,
just feet away but the blinds
were always drawn
after the first embarrassment.
Some houses packed so tight, 
that the old man
Who liked beer too much
had trouble stumbling through.
The tiny porches, that said hello
To passer-by, have lost
their voices.
The floral papered dining rooms
scented with the dry tears 
of graduation celebrations
and deadly mourning,
All crushed unceremoniously like
Broken clocks into the dumpsters
that line the streets like hearses. 
Then the new houses
stride in like conquistadors,
Without care, with god at their side,
Planting their flags,
Claiming territory already owned
By generations gone silent, but 
in any case, nothing
Can be heard over the rumble of
Glittering gold coins flowing
Fast through the century old gutters.


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