Cut On The Bias

Outside my window three more have gone up,
father.
Brick and steel and wood.
Gravel everywhere.
The sound of hammers and generators.
Hardhats on hard men.
Hands clutching blankets in search of progress.
New structures taking the place of an empty lot
where an old grocery store used to be.
And still it beats.
People used to hang out and sell drugs
and do their laundry, and buy pork rinds and beer.
Now they will sell for 400k
and my view of the street will be blocked,
shortened,
reduced to nothing more
than a blinking green light.
Tell me more, father.
Tell me of oxygen and blue skies
and the way people used to sing the blues
sitting on concrete
while men who held scalpels cut on the bias.
Tell me of the strudel makers.
The ones who could roll out a pie crust flaky as a fall leaf,
whose hands were so strong they could wrench chickens’ necks
in one snap,
 whose teeth were full of gold when they smiled.
Where are they in these new town homes with the stainless appliances
and the granite countertops?
Do they even care about whose tears they are blotting?
Tomorrow the men in trucks will come again
and my world will become even smaller.