hear you

To the woman who yells, “Tax-EEEE!” on my street, one of the most taxi-ridden streets in San Francisco, because she must have waited a whole 30 seconds before seeing one: I hear you.

To the man who asks people for money on the corner and then makes snide comments about the size of their asses as they walk on by: I hear you.

To the car-alarm symphony at three in the morning: I hear you. Your owner does not hear you, not for maybe ten or fifteen minutes, but I hear you.

To the thick sound of the industrial clothes-press at the wash-and-fold, every minute and a half between the hours of 8 and 6: I hear you.

To the unusually articulate pimp explaining difficult economic concepts to inattentive yet captive audiences: I hear you.

To the taxi brakes shrieking to each other in their alien mating-call: I hear you.

To the drunk girls on the stoop who assert that this shit is indeed bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S: I hear you.

To those of the less than stellar parallel parking jobs, evoking honks and rejoinders and occasionally the crunch of a bumper: I hear you.

To the streetlights too weak to light more than the suggestion of urine on a curb yet somehow humming with current: I hear you.

To the tenant who forgot the building code and decided to try every single two-, three-, and four-number combination between bouts of raucous vomiting: I hear you. I so wish I hadn’t, but I hear you.

To the snuffling, snarling dog, unfamiliar with the smells of this place, upset and alone but too fierce to be caught and cared for: I hear you. I hear you most of all.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.