Your Tent’s on Fire (But We Saved the Parking Lot)
“Beautify your street today!Scrub the poor. Cement the gray.”A jingle hums from digital speakers
as bulldozers idle at dawn,A city’s PR crew ready with brushes,
ready to paint the desperate gone.
She stitched a bed from plastic bags and thread,
Behind the grocery where castoffs are fed.A mayor beamed for ribbon snaps,
Then signed off plans to erase her map.He
sparked a cigarette with trembling hands,
Watched his future disappear beneath new zoning commands.The crew swept in,
the asphalt poured,
Tomorrow’s skyline paid for, the vanished ignored.
No sink, no lock, no rent, no rights—Still,
the police flash blue through sleepless nights.Progress measured by eviction slips
and the echo of boots,Sanitation in uniform, dignity uproots.Your tent’s on fire,
but the curb is clean—A pressure-washed image on the business machine.Forget the faces, erase the scars,Cover
the grave with branded cars.The illusion of order,
the price of deceit—A life erased to make the street elite.
Once, she taught music, laced children’s songs with hope and care,
Now she hums in shadow, melodies dissolving in cold
air.She huddles by a puddle of piss and broken glass,
Behind the bank, behind the class.No one helps, hope leaks out,
The city whispers “policy” and blames her drought.Each vote a brick,
each plan a theft—A culture that curates what’s left.
Candles flicker where the gate’s been locked,“We’re full,” they say,
while the path is blocked.Comfort demands ignorance,
mercy’s exiled by law,If solace costs a glance,
compassion is never more than a flaw.
No food, no form,No hope, no norm.No voice, no fame,No witness, no name.
Your tent’s on fire, but the lot looks fine—Fresh stripes painted,
new signage aligned.They cleared the mess,
they washed the scene,Her ashes scattered in the space between.He died beneath the council’s dream,Approved
by boardroom, blessed by regime.No one counted the
bodies lost—But the parking lot was worth the cost.