Overlooking unhoused hearts

in a tent encampment, 

an East Oakland billboard

zip ties my eyes: 

YOU CAN’T BUY HAPPINESS.

Sure, I get it. Then again,

can any vocal cords

vocalize negotiable happiness?

Can we negotiate 

a pay-what-you-can happiness

or better yet

a we-need-to-give-a-fuck happiness?

I know I’m Oakland lucky. 

I have green

presidents in my pocket

and a lock 

on my 38th Avenue door.

When I drop my skin-wrapped 

blood onto a $500 mattress

under a $50 blanket

in a square studio

that costs $55 every night,

I dream about burning that billboard 

down. A neurological fire 

warms my housed blood cells 

in this zip code

branded a vegetable desert.

Can I buy a sunny 10¢ carrot 

or a joyful $1.50 radish bunch

in my neighborhood 

heavy with melanin?

USPS doesn’t bother to plant

a dark blue mailbox around here —

doesn’t care if I mail a 60¢

envelope of happiness. 

I wake up and read

gentrification seeks to swipe away 

that tent encampment

for a concrete grocery box

where health and happiness

will be available for purchase

at the checkout counter.

Published in WordSwell (Volume 3, Summer 2023) and Monetized Happiness (2025)