Years revolved, began to circle Beatrice, a ring of burning eyes. The sky stared down.Īt the center of the world's blue eye, the woman stared back. She furrowed herselfīy hand through the ground. Her legs endedĪt the ankle, old brown cypress knees. Her chair into fragile clumps of new grass. Roxboro Road, she'd seen a woman with no feet wheel On roller skates, pull a string of children, grinning, gaudy-Įyed as merry-go-round horses, brass wheeled In Hollywood, California (she'd been told) women travel The neighbors stand and say: The world is ours, ours, ours. We demand. Not rabble and rabid, not shadow, not terror, Safe, the people come out of their houses to shout: The big finance company had to hide its sign, AIG. In another city, some foreclosed people got so angry Weathered rocks and pile those up in the corner. Green turned under into small rows, they harvest On my street some people harrow a vacant lot, With the blue light, CHASE, that stays on 24/7. Until the for-sale-by-bank signs grow overnight,Īnd of course there's the bank at James and Lodi No way to tell who owns my neighborhood homes A bumble-īee in the clover fumbling to find its damp-dirt home. Lock store down the block, a giant curlicue keyĪdvertising sleep all night, sweet dreams. What does it take to be safe? A sun-porch windowīarred shut with a wood-spooled bed frame. Guarding a house on the street of broken dreams. The dog lunged at me and choked on its chain
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