To the feminist karate union and the screeching
motorcycles on 1st Ave, burnouts a block long.
To the skater punk snapping selfies in the sun,
wearing a scruffed up t-shirt the same shitty
black as oblivion, not smiling, not even the eyes.
And also to the tangueras who drown oblivion
with their bodies, a terrible drone of beauty.
To the morning yogis I love to hate in their spandex
and grace making asanas before light. To impossible,
delicate hijabs framing the face of six-year olds
who skip in to an old brick school. To the kids,
the mother buying frijoles y tortillas for dinner again,
invisible men building and feeding and cleaning
the city to send dollars into walls of casas
they’ll never know. To the inherited, lucky wrench
in the mechanic’s hand, to the boozy cherry
on a toothpick, to the fruit trees no one picks clean,
the cherries and plums and apples. The blackberries
rotting on city brambles. To the spoiled kids, the quiet
kids and the angry kids and the yes kids and the no
kids, to all the kids who haven’t yet met oblivion
but are learning the ways to shape themselves
around it. To the techies who never really know
what to do with their money. And the few who do.
To the bus drivers. To the crackheads, the fishermen
weaving their nets and blackstacking North.
To the woman and her cart on the canal not leaving,
staying, how many days, under a broken umbrella?
To sail boats, to craft ales on sale, to jackhammers,
to cranes. To Seattle, you ache too hard, vibrate
at the seams. Like flint. Like caught breath.
Like NW’s finest weed burning a hole in the throat.
Once the moon was the minute hand, the seasons
the hour. What I miss most is stillness.