valiantly (maybe), writers musicians artists try to hold on
like the previous tidal wave of realtor shock troops -
the hookers and dope lord trainees who
did their jobs and split on schedule.
i know how often a funkytown becomes
a Sandburg Village, so i claimed early my piece
of disinterred sidewalk, put it in a box next to shards
of stolen Berlin Wall.
the homeless here have more roots than
any passing platoons of carpetbaggers;
they bear unwilling and taciturn witness,
trudging under the neutron-bomb afterglow
from phony gaslights,
ignoring the sparkle from fresh parking meters,
gleaning loose change as the place mutates
in presumed fashion:
broken-in 'hood to doughnut hole to
Haight-Ashbury/Greenwich Village/Soho
becoming Hollywood backdrop
becoming second-hand Seattle drowning in
Alternative Muzak and Starbucks Blue Note Blend.

the lumpenpriviledged howl in protest,
anticipating the epitaph: "apres moi, le deluge." not yet.

not while one sixth of six corners keeps shutting down;
not while the shuttling suits still stick out
in the afternoon like tired Conquistadors
lost in the underbrush;
not while the neighborhood's dark half
stands firm against Gold Coast stench
and doesn't give a damn who's alderman, now.

there are still melodies visions whispered
nightmlares in the mortar, waiting for breath...
some of us walk softly and stand on the corners,
eavesdropping.