Why aren’t they scared?

They jog under broken
street lamps, and walk
fancy dogs on sidewalks
used to mutts and stray
condoms. Do they know
our avenues are violent?
Do they even know
our young boys hang
onto oxygen like a chain
smoker’s unfiltered
cough? What do they think
is going to happen when
rent pushes us out
of our Brownstones and
onto the paths in which
they jog? Inevitably their
sons and daughters will sneak
us home, and we’ll touch
the banisters of their crystal
stairs. Will they still want
to ride their vintage bikes
on our boulevards when
the economy worsens?
They’re comfortable
running at night because
there is no Bigger Thomas
crouching in their basements.
The for sale signs are only
for our houses. We don’t
speak when they wave,
it’s because we know
it always means goodbye.

Chris Slaughter