Pandemic December: A Trip Through Portland, Oregon

We have a yard

green grass and the spiny dried arms 

of summer’s tomato madness

skeletal now, their vines hang over silver cages

reminiscing about a life well lived

as we pour the red sauce over our fettucine

We go out after lunch, pull some weeds and things

and fill the green barrel, our Fall Cleaning Up

then we load the car, bags of donated clothes

a frozen chicken and the presents Grandma Sheila sent

We drive down the hill and to the stop light

cross over past the corner with the errant shopping carts

How do the homeless gather all those bags? Whose are they?

We take Barbur Boulevard to the Ross Island Bridge

where we look the Veteran in the eye, his cardboard sign

misspelled, no face mask in his pandemic

and the girls look past him into the mess of tents and trash

beyond the exit ramp

Out Powell we drive and each next street has more and more

houseless bodies, wrapped in layers, plastic tarps strewn against chain link

graffiti tags on overpasses, underneath which pieces, parts of bikes and cars

of tents and cans and bottles, paper, piles, metal rusting, spray paint letters sloping

neighborhoods that look far different from our own

Neon lights flash hot pink in daytime shadows

women dancers, Kitten Club and our minivan rolls slowly

past a girl whose clothing couldn’t be much smaller 

without telling us she’ll sell herself

Where is her was her oh, her mother, oh dear baby

Whose are you?

We pass the groups of men on porches, vaping 

clouds of white smoke rising past the cars, hoods open

hands in pockets, hats on backwards, trailers with the wheels are missing

up on bricks in traffic lanes, we drive around the obstacles

we’re almost there, Maria’s house

Up ahead on Holgate there’s a man in traffic dancing acting jumping

half his clothes are gone, we turn left, drive down the lane past 

trash cans overflowing, windows with no panes

just pizza boxes keeping out the cold

Maria comes out with the kids. No masks, all play, she says to me

the pandemic will be over soon, it’s almost over, that’s what they say

She’s prayed to God, He healed her boils, I check my dictionary to be sure 

that’s what she meant

On the way home we pass the dancer, his red meth sores, up too close

The grandma in her wheelchair in the four-lane road, with a girl upon her lap

pajamas and tiara and a wand held high to ward off traffic?

Three tweens on cycles with ironed hair, no helmets and no worries

Why should I, oh why should I and yet I wonder, whose are you? 

The twenty minutes back to home

we talk with our dear babies about social services

and government and politics and tax

we are all shocked from what we’ve seen

it’s so much misery

Our house sits waiting, our street is quiet

families play out on their lawns, no trash, no cars on blocks

no tarps on fences, no cardboard signs 

our green bin’s full, our fridge holds food 

and if you’d like more sauce from ripe tomatoes

but I can’t eat, I can only wonder, whose are they? 

And with so much sadness 

acknowledge

They are mine.