Monday, May 10, 2010


We walk the streets looking
For a sign, any sign that once
These homes housed ones
Such as we – but there is
Little or no evidence

Now, the places look similar
Each one the same as
Every other; all painted trim
And newly shingled

With false brick facades
And cheery gingerbread
Edges and mailboxes
With hearts cut-out

They look eerily story-book
Familiar but with a patina
Of fake all the same
And there seems to be
Little soul associated
With the neighbourhood

Of our youth – we slow
As we come to the end of
Another block and look back
At the uniformity – all the lawns
Exactly the same; the fences
Perfect heights surrounding
Perfect lots – but no children

Anywhere – in fact,
One could be forgiven
For thinking it a ghost
Town – there are no people
To be seen in our old
Ghetto – it’s been renovated

And it’s beyond depressing
Now; it’s hard to put a name
To why we cannot embrace
This improvement
It feels all wrong as if they
Tore down a park and put up
A parking lot

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