One Woman’s Hell… a gentrifier's lament

Tiny - Posted on 08 September 2015

wrinkles and cellulite
rats and roaches
a boring Saturday night
downsizing and outsourcing
muggers and rapists
bad hair
bad breath
underarm hair
My terror is as real as yours.

It keeps me much to busy
to consider
poverty famine war
sickness old age and death.

It justifies whatever measures necessary
to sanitize
decry and deny.

My house is a war zone.
How can I care about anything else!
My kitchen a bombed-out hell
awaiting new marble countertops
and a Subzero freezer.
Living on take-out for months
has been no picnic,
let me tell you.

I don't have time
to read the news any more.
I don't have time to care
about Syria and Sudan
or even another body
found on Potrero Hill.
Anonymous brown skin
in a too-tight leather outfit
breasts spilled out
like golden apples.
Nappy head wrapped
in an African scarf.

She went down to Capp St
to sell her body for money to feed her kids.
My husband goes to the whore zone—
to get away from me.


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