Upward Mobility
A prose poem
i.
7:00am, mid-May, early for a bike ride up the mountain, I leave my neighborhood, its quiet broken by traffic and barking behind fences with “Beware Of The Dog” signs, past the bus stop where some wait for a ride and others wake from a night outdoors, surrounded by trash and shared struggle, and those whose eye I catch return my greetings, “hey, morning, brother,” as they shuffle to or from the convenience store, or the dealer, maybe, whoever supplies whatever fills the syringes I often find when I’m walking and not biking my neighborhood, and dawn breaks on them as life breaks on them as I start out, easing through lights and stop signs and narrow streets
ii.
until past the river I reach the part of town where there are no buses or bus stops and start the climb in earnest, where the roads have bike lanes and little traffic, not at this time, except for the work trucks carrying black and brown bodies up to build and mow and weed the million dollar homes that hoard the views, and black and white Teslas carrying husbands down to work while their Pilates-sculpted wives in tight Athleta gear walk past me with their dogs, talking about their busy days ahead packed with brunch and child pick up and book group, frowning at the limbs fallen across the sidewalk,
