The Color of Oakland
Oakland, is Black.
Oakland is Green
as the paper exchanged by calloused hands
finding temporary housing in the pocket of the charismatic seller-of-highs, with his charming smile
as he jaunts toward the front of the tavern
his white girl in tow
his breast pocket laden with slow-death
As though he owns the place
As though he owns himself.
Oakland is Orange
like the ember’s crackling between laughter around the fire ’til the awkwardness lifts
and we graciously ease
into the joys of community.
Oakland is Blue
like the young people who travelled hundreds of miles
alone
on the tops of trains through Central America to flee war, gang induction and rape
to land there
not knowing when they will again see their families
yet trying to learn it’s code.
Oakland is Golden
as that bewitching hour before the stars grin shyly over the Bay Bridge, and the L goes around that One. Last. Time.
Oakland is Brown
like the paper bag blanketing the Budweiser bottle as her grasp of it softens, and her eyes begin to drift into yesterdays.
Oakland is Red like new Love.
And as Lavender as true Love.
Oakland is everything.
Oakland, is Black.
