yester-morrows

sorrow sits, nestled in 

her palms outstretched

tinging a life of walkabouts 

and yester-morrows

guns or fireworks

My little ‘hood in East Dallas was sandwiched between one of million dollar homes and a ghetto I didn’t like to drive through alone. We were mostly middle class? Lower middle class? Monetarily thrifty? Just people with jobs who settled in to a place we could almost afford, or older residents who had purchased new and were nearing death.

When I first moved in, the house on the furthest corner near where I wouldn’t drive, caught fire. Curious, many of us flocked over only to see firemen pulling plants out of a smoldering garage. 

When helicopters were seen, we’d wonder if they were traffic or police. We called them all Ghetto Birds. Around holidays, weekends, and the random weekday, we’d hear loud pops and wonder if it was guns or fireworks. Flat tires were common from the foot-deep potholes and ruts. We knew each other, closely and loosely, wondered and gathered randomly, share food and woes. Some came, some went, some stayed, one or two caused havoc.

I woke up missing my house, the yard, space to dwell. It wasn’t much, the gentrification was encroaching by the time I sold, but it was mine and the people I knew were true.