Gentry Fried.

Wolf of wall street types,
with slicked back hair,
stole the stained ceramic tiles
right out from underneath
my single mother's
sweet, aching feet.

She saved every penny
that she earned,
to buy this house–
her pride and joy–
only to be evicted
by sharks
disguised as sheep
who dragged her out
between their teeth.

Immediately painting over
offending graffiti
with signs that read,
'Starbucks: coming soon'
like the kiss of death,
with another five
within twenty feet,
where my b-boy crew and I
once breakdanced
to the Beastie Boys
and Run DMC.

Ma was relocated
forcefully to some
suburban scene,
that might as well
have been called Hell,
instead of Parish Street.

She stuck out like an alien,
an unwelcome stranger
in this neighbourhood,
where whiney women
wined and dined
on weekdays,
then attended church
on Sunday evenings.

Still, they locked
their cars from the inside
when mom had the audacity
to step foot outside her door.

This community of Stepford wives,
that looked down on my madre
from their horses high,
were more self-righteous
than born again convicts
intent on preaching to the choir.

Gentrify some other guy,
erect your crooked condos
in some other sky!

As you build profit,
and raze projects
that once unified
people who would
never have seen
eye to eye otherwise.
Different cultures came together,
mingling with one another,
leaving prejudice behind;
these meetings even
drastically reduced crime.

Until the men in black arrived
with their pockets lined,
drooling over future
bank account balances
that were stacked sky-high.

Single mothers, tossed aside,
fell so low on the social hierarchy
that they simply remained silent,
in spite of the tears in their eyes.

Another ghetto fairy tale
that would not end
with 'happily ever after'
but instead,
just with a single sigh.
.