They painted over old brick with that clean white shine,
Hung a sign that says “Lofts” where the jukebox used to grind.
Bench where we skipped class turned into a bike rack rail,
And the old man’s bodega sits empty with a big “For Sale.”
Barber pole stopped spinning, shop windows papered tight,
New folks walking poodles where we smoked through the night.
The mural of the sax man vanished in a week,
Now some real estate grin hangs where his horn would speak.
They carved up my street and sold it by the square-foot line,
Turned every lost weekend into rooftop wine.
I walk past glassy lobbies where the jukebox used to sing,
Trying not to feel like something they forgot to bring.
Church bells once shook the windows every Sunday noon,
Now it’s “event space only” if you book it soon.
Choir kids got traded for rows of yoga mats,
And the pastor’s old Cadillac’s parked between new Teslas and flats.
Mama’s rent went triple off one cold mail day,
She boxed up her dishes, said she couldn’t stay.
Her kitchen light burned steady through blackout and storm,
Now it’s smart bulbs and passcodes where we kept warm.
They serve tiny plates where we once lived on fries,
Bartender knew our damage just by reading our eyes.
Now the barstools are chrome and the records are fake,
And the stories that were born here don’t fit this remake.
One day they’ll pave over every footprint they see,
But that corner bar’s ghost still keeps a seat for me.