until last week
I could count on one hand
how many white people I’ve seen at my apartment:
the little girl,
with a place name like mine, and her dad.
a woman whose dog is constantly getting out.
the couple across the hall, who take
their recycling to Sprouts.
but from day one
I didn’t have enough hands to hold the pied beauty of my neighborhood:
its red, blue, yellow, buildings,
bus stops with people milling,
and neon signs to set the mood.
its Hispanic couple,
young black man,
trans woman,
African couple,
Latina property managers.
its women at the neighborhood grocery speaking in languages I don’t recognize --
much less understand --
and cashiers wearing headscarves, telling us “Have A Nice Day.”
and the children! in every color, everywhere, asking:
“How old are you?”
“Where do you work?”
“Do you have any kids?”
“Have you read this book?”
“Where do you live?”
“Do you like cupcakes?”
“Can I pet your dog?”
and
“Do you have any food?”
that I can’t count, but remember.
last weekend
I walked my dog around the neighboring elementary school,
advertising a free health clinic on Saturday.
We walked the perimeter of the school grounds, bordered by a family of fences:
three different gated apartment complexes
and one [enclosed] piece of suburbia.
my apartment is an inlet, hamlet,
my Hamelin,
from which tweens and teens slip
in a cinch
for our fence
is not a solid eight-foot metal sheet
attached to posts anchored deep in a concrete
wall
to prevent any holes underneath
or bars missing between
like those we see on its wrought-iron brothers
so these children
drawn by the dribble
pulled through by a Piper beating a ball on the ground
can just play with their friends on a sunny afternoon?
we come home
sit outside in the sunshine
and I think
Glory be to God for dappled things
Latin music floats up to my porch
mingled with rap
punctuated by car horn
and I wonder
Is the sound of every tribe and tongue and nation?
with news of
and section 8
do we see
deadbeat
or Imago Dei?