Corners

There's something about Harlem that drives me absolutely crazy

Not the cool air that moves through you if you step outside after sunset
Not the soul music that reminds you of an older generation unwilling to leave
Not the laughter from teenagers negotiating sex, love, and hip hop(or is it just sex?)
Not the bouncing of basketballs by young men just trying to survive and forget life's realities

Probably instead, it's a gentrification that just won't quit
Doesn't give a shit
Can't be bothered at all

Poverty just a corner away from comfortable wealth
Tree lined streets of brownstones
A hop, skip, and a jump from disabled homeless men sleeping on the street
Cute little trees and 'true diversity'
Professionals in various skin colors with the deep pockets to rent or buy
Old timers and natives need not apply

Garbage that flies around in the wind
Sticks to your ankles when you wear a dress
But never, never, never
Makes it around the corner
Somehow knows it's not wanted
Just like the homeless, disabled, drug addicted, and/or prostitutes
Who never, never, never
Make it around the corner
Somehow knowing where they're not wanted

Sometimes I think I'll scream
Tantrum and Fling
The nearest garbage can through a nice shiny window
Knock on the door of a renovated brownstone
And tell the occupants they're doing no one any favors
Reveal the secret inadvertently of course
That I am one of them
"Blessing" Harlem with my presence

A middle class social worker
Who's Latina at least, does that not count for something?
As I pay a rent that eliminates the possibility of that 'other' Latina living here
The one walking into the projects
Around the corner
With two kids, maybe one kid too many
Who isn't allowed to dream she can live in my apartment

We can both walk down the main street
Avoiding garbage
That never, never, never turns the corner
We can hold our breath as we pass the homeless men who have been lying in the sweltering heat
We can avoid the gaze of the police officer who's doing his best to keep 'us' safe from our own
We can pray for a neighborhood that makes sense
Instead of what exists
We can do and say as we please for as long as we want

But then we'll turn our respective corners
And realize that we live in two different Harlems
And the cool air
The soul music
The laughter
The basketballs
Can't make it around every corner