Sandy lots with unmovable junk cars,

Barking dogs and cheap mobile homes,

Dominate my old neighborhood.

It as though the owners are trying to keep strangers out,

But I have no idea who’s trying to get in.

Crushed coke cans and old carpets,

Broken TVs and shards of glass,

Litter the yards of the block where I grew up.

Any passerby would not mistake this place for one of wealth,

Or plan their next great heist.

Yet the fences are high, and the dogs do bark.

To protect what?

Hidden hopes,

and buried dreams.

Life.

In this rundown part of my city,

There is purpose.

Beyond the signs of the working class,

The unkept yards and trash,

These people,

My people,

They believe in something.

And I,

I believe in them.