When We Were Young in the City
Marsha Markman
When we were young
we picked sunflowers, pussy willows
golden daisies and dandelions
squeezed among brittle weeds
living and dying together
in a string of vacant lots
blueprints for progress
in the city.
When we were young
we saw houses lifted from their foundations
a grandma in yellow cotton
framed in her open doorway
borne away on the wheels of a flatbed
while we played baseball on the gritty surface
of the budding Hollywood Freeway
before blacktop and gridlock
buried the mystique of progress
in the city.
When we were young
we gave the sunflowers to our mothers
the daisies to our teacher.
We blew wishes on furry dandelions
caressed the willows until fuzzy buds
dried and fell from fragile branches.
We saw houses torn from their footings
a grandma in yellow cotton
borne away on the wheels of a flatbed
while we played baseball on the craggy freeway
in the ghostly shadow of progress
when we were young in the city.
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