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 here with little truths.
As they say, White Center ain’t so white,
and Greenbridge, well, there’s no bridge either.
From the old homes named Park Lake
families carried suitcases and slips of paper
that promise to pay the rent—
at least until the budget’s cut
and Section 8 dries up.
This morning there is no debate.
First one from the corner has lace curtains,
candles and flowers line the panes.
The sun’s not risen yet
above the Cascade range
and tea steeps on a countertop
while 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,
sound asleep.
—Jeremy Orhan Simer