sinks in the bay,
draped in last night’s little black dress,
drowning with no splash.
Prosperity
struggles like a bud in the parched dirt of the drought,
capped in flower petals eventually,
hoping to disseminate and proliferate,
to spread like a germ or a dandelion weed.
strangles an encampment in the Mission on 16th
Holey once-loved shirts and tights left behind by the raptured.
Prosperity
suffocates and breathes air into lungs inflated,
dressed in cheap fast fashion that falls apart and tears fast—
She screams out loud when it rips.
seeps under the water table,
squeezing through cracks trying to reach tendrils out to you,
an aquifer of change to spare, keeps meeting a dead end.
Prosperity
looms in the light of the street lamp before dawn comes over Sutro,
lighting your warm still-loved knit,
hoping to take you to where you need to be—
And when you get there, to have some change to spare.
