Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge!
Vacant Lot
I wonder what came of that big-leaft tree.
My brothers smoked monkey cigars that grew.
It was a good place to dream who I'd be.
They raised me on that block with Black bills due.
The tree of heaven stank to high heaven.
I used to stand by the window and lean.
I would send my voice to rise like leaven.
I wondered sweet about all I would mean.
All that is gone now, even that old house.
In that place remains the two tall old trees.
My mother ran a clothesline, shorts, shirt, blouse.
What rises to sun is crowds of wild weeds.
An ache runs through me as I ride by there.
No one would ever guess leaves we still bear.
Written by Angela Jackson
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