Brother poet teaches me
how to catch fireflies,
those glimmering sparks
that flicker in my mind.
He tells me, pull over when a muse trails you
in the fast lane–
No way you wanna mess with a muse.
But there’s no soft shoulder to pull over
on San Leandro Boulevard–
Just a high curb holding a river of weeds,
graffiti, and make-shift shelters multiplying
faster than the thistles and thorns.
There’s nothing soft about my route to work
through East Oakland.
I park in the employee lot and cross the street
dodging red light runners and rats
that leap like pole vaulters into air vents.
I’m late for work
but a muse caught a ride on my tail pipe,
held me in her silky hands, pinned my eyelids
open wide.
My gaze traces the corrugated bark of a palm tree
towering above the Fruitvale BART.
Not fifty feet away, Oscar Grant got shot
dead
by a cop who said
he’d confused right from left
but really confused right from wrong
as he pulled his gun
on a handcuffed man
face down on the platform.
I’m late for work
but palm frond shadows
dance on the pavestones
and women who walked all the way from Guatemala
rest
in the shade
wearing handwoven huipils
and high-heeled shoes from PayLess.
Girls with black braids
skip ‘round the fountain,
clap hands in blue water,
giggle their delight.
I scribble snapshots in my calendar,
in the leftover corners of days.
I might as well be the palm tree, the fountain,
the aroma of coffee
in the plaza.
I’m late for work
but the sun spells summer
on my shoulders,
brother poet’s voice
is in my ears,
and there are fireflies everywhere
I look.
