I live on the plains of Detroit's Serengeti.
My home is an outpost surrounded by grasslands and streets with holes in them.
The few proud and understated joyful neighbors wave every day on this sleepy one way.
Two houses overtaken by ivy stand facing.
One has seen fire, the other foreclosure.
Soon honeysuckle will take over the north side.
Behind the privacy fence in my yard, the lawn is not mowed;
It is filled with chicory flowers and milkweed.
The grass itself is sharp and I no longer have leather feet like I did as a child,
so I walk carefully along trodden footpaths.
There was so much broken glass in the soil as it was was being dug up and mended for the garden.
The vegetables now grow tall.
Swallowtails have laid their eggs and their caterpillars have eaten most of the parsley.
Sunset brings the drag racers and traffic to the liquor store nearby.
I pray for the sound of the highway tonight and no gunfire.
Somewhere people are eating in restaurants and drinking in bars.
That feels like a different world,
and why shouldn't it?
I am wildlife on the plains.
The pheasants and the foxes are my friends.
