Who lived here—did they get to taste

that organic-ginger-infused
nonsense down the street, I wonder

if the past was also aided

not ailed by the police. People
tell us we picked a perfect time
to pack up and decamp, but we
feel displaced (there’s a question I

don’t ask) because they call this place

paradise—everything walking

distance, flea markets, church socials,

flea-free felines and dogs, all-white

picket fences and poster boards—

that occasionally protest

some state-approved rule, then make a

propos instantly tangible:
property tax, doggy poo bags,

resegregate the magnet school—

and then there’s bliss again, back to

each item white tagged being on

sale at the yard sale for Miss York,

who’s only going up the street

(and she will still own the house, it

will be an Airbnb) for
a bit. We hope the renter will
be brown; we hope we will still be

here if they get here. One answer

we have to fight our question is:

we don’t go to the sale without

saying hi, or buying something.