Hope?

What hope?

Hope for a world consisting of inconsistencies

of hoods on top of garbage dumps

in India, Bangladesh, Cambodia - - - -

on top of piles of nasty garbage

smelly garbage

puky garbage

Where co-ops rise above

stories high

the concrete below sinking a quarter of an inch

every year because

it’s on top of a swamp

Where Co-op city in Bronx, NY kids run deep

killing each other

On top of garbage dumps

children play

babies laugh in playgrounds

playing ball the little ones miss the basket

because their little hands are so small

and the basket towers above them

looming…

They miss the basket

The elders teaching the babies…

“Its okay, try again, “ he says.

Keep trying We say. Don’t give up

because the fighter

who gives up before the game is over

dies.

I don’t know what a hopeful world looks like.

Only hopeful moments.

Moments where my little babies laugh and

their laughter turns into disorganization –

heads shaking, eyes rolling back,

yelling, “Don’t touch me.”

“I won’t touch you,” I say, “I’ll only stay here by your side.”

Stay by my side I say and so you do.

But not until you’ve beaten me. Beaten me and I’ve kicked you.

You’ve held me down and so I’ve bitten you.

You grab me and so I push you.

But you win.

You win because you push me down, down into the couch.

I can’t leave.

You won’t let me.

But I won’t let you win next time.

Next time I’ll fight back more and more until there’s nothing left.

There’s only dust.

Dust and garbage.

And high rises.

High rises filled with dope and love.

Heroin and eyes. Watching, waiting.