Returning from the
Parking Enforcement Office
for two citations
(expired tags
on a parked truck)
and the Bank of America
(penalties and
monthly service fees
on a closed account)
I cut through the
Bank of the West
where they used to keep
a grassy lawn.

It was all getting pulled up now
by a team of
hardworking Mexicans.

A skinny black man
came past moving smartly,
wild-eyed with a
Navy ballcap.

“They took all your grass, there, buddy.”

It took me a second to realize
he was talking to Abigail.

“Not all of it,” she replied
pulling me along
to an untouched patch
in the shady back,
not really needing
to speak.