Ghetto park days,

Trash on the ground.

Sounds of yelling, cussing, laughter bounce from the courts to the playground.

Kids pushing and playing,

Fighting and saying,

“Who wanna to be it?”

Picnic table filled with aunties;

Gossiping as they sit.

Drug deals, bare feet,

No adult supervision, broken swings.

Dogs off leashes, broken glass pieces.

Spray paint tags, overfilled garbage bags.

Echoes of pool splash, creaky seesaw almost giving whiplash.

Baseball field’s worn diamonds,

People staying out the way like islands.

Despite the state of it all—

It’s still community.

It’s ours y’all.