I trip on sidewalk trash
next to an overfilled trash can
at Ruby and 38th.
In this Mosswood neighborhood,
I pay water and electricity and rent
to breathe in a bedroom
engulfed in white paint
within America’s monetized kingdom.
Two blocks away in Mosswood Park,
tents are supine on city grass
where unhoused hearts vibrate.
Is anyone listening?
A flash of hours ago
when midnight triumphed,
I heard pop pop pop
from the privilege of my mattress.
Blood stained Oakland concrete
in a 94609 zip code.
Is anyone listening?
At 38th and Ruby
under assaulting sunlight,
I pick my bloody self up
and ask: what if I transplanted myself
into a fern-painted bedroom.
Through a yawning door, I amble
into a backyard fantasy
to plant an appleseed.
Over a cascade of Oakland days,
a sapling bursts through black soil
by the strength of solar kisses.
I swallow a Golden Delicious
under a rooted sky.