Zoning

You walk the line
of sycamores shooting forty feet
straight up from the sidewalk
and wonder which was there first.
That's how it works
in this world we've created:
First in, best dressed;
possession is nine-tenths of the law.

The same holds true
for this city itself.
Those who've moved
to its ranch grid of tree streets
and exposed brick walk-ups
have claimed it for their own.
An invisible gate
of vintage rack gentrification
has been conjured in the minds
of the visionary elite
slamming shut as soon
as they've paid their rental deposits
to keep out the rest
of those who would dare
to add to the roster.

You cross a busy intersection
beholding the non-bohemian behemoth
responsible for social outcry
among the congress of conquest.
The smell of the plywood
sheathing the incomplete
first floor hits your nostrils
but doesn't sting as smartly
as the wind that's brought November.
You wonder if the facade
is not the right hue of red
or the intended residents' demographic
doesn't wear the proper flannel.

Why the commotion?
Is life that bland?

A couple in their thirties
approaches the new building.
The woman snaps a photo
that she'll post soon from her phone
as her beau holds the leash
of the dog raised as their child.
It's wrapped in a plaid jacket
to fend off the season's bite
while across the street
in a gas station parking lot
two homeless men wear
a combination of piss-stained denim
and tattered army surplus
from a war with clearer lines.

One of them's named Patrick.
You've given him smokes
and bought him pints
at the dive on the corner
that lets him in
even though he doesn't care
about the game on either screen.
You've listened to his stories
and asked him where he sleeps.
None of this makes you a better person
but it angers you that the mentality in town
is more focused on what they deem an eyesore
than the people who need coats
more than some privileged cats and dogs do.

The menus are vast
and the rent is paid early
but this isn't a place
that you'll ever call "home".