Old Town

Tacked onto a cold and bare brick wall –
A tombstone for this lost city –
A single photograph, grainy and yellow,
Ransoms a few tanned and leather faces
With calloused hands and uncertain gazes.
Eyes smiling with hope
Yet brows creased with doubt
As if they knew this avenue were to be inherited
By young white women who work during happy hour
By mugs and magnets
And Hawaiian-print button-ups.
They were to be forgotten and replaced –
The few who made this town –
The hands that dug deep into the dry, compacted dirt
And pulled up the roots of a city,
Shriveling and screaming in the desert sun,
Begging to be reburied
Anywhere but here.
But the solemn faces whispered “no”
And yanked at the roots
And spat at the sun
And gave this land a name.
Their sweat has since dried
Now only a salty memory,
A quaint story on a kids' menu,
A single photo on the wall.