They tore down the wartime bungalows
built in rows along the dry spines of glaciers.
The land lay fallow a while, a graveyard
of dirt and weeds locked behind chain link
'til the rains sprouted frames and foundations.
Men appeared with tools in hand, grumbling trucks
moved the earth, and homes the color of Easter eggs
stacked up in the afternoon sun.
Lies stand shoulder to shoulder with little truths.
From the old homes families carried
suitcases and slips of paper
that promise to pay the rent—
at least until the budget’s cut.
As they say, White Center aint so white,
and Greenbridge, well, there’s no bridge either.
But this morning it hardly matters.
First one from the corner has lace curtains,
candles and flowers line the panes.
The sun’s not risen yet
above the park and the lake.
Tea steeps on a countertop
and one bright bulb lights the faces
of a grandmother and child in the window.
At the front door a broom stands guard,
its fight with construction dust now done,
and shoes of all sizes lie in a row,