Big Trash Day in The 'Hood

Anger, my gracious motivator.
Preheat at 425.
Chicken nuggets and french fries enable me to write for 15 minutes as opposed to something healthier that would give me only five.
Shoot me.
I need this to stay alive long enough to live.
Big Trash Day tomorrow, but I'm a much better scavenger than releaser...
or whatever that would be called.
My great Big Trash Day finds:
The queen size bed I sleep on.
It's actually the best matress and box springs I've ever had,
perched atop an old IKEA frame I salvaged from a parking lot.
Probably the casualty of a domestic altercation gone awry.
A conncrete bird bath with the "bath" missing, that I let live on my porch.
I had it inside when we lived in the hood, for two reasons.
One was the obvious yet irrational fear it would be stolen,
And two, the wood floors in that historic old duplex could sustain it's weight.
I miss that place, but not the crime and violence.
Oppression oozing up from the drainage ditches.
We were in "The Bermuda Triangle" of cultural violence.
Blacks on the East side, The Barrio to the South, and Asians to the West.
I'm not talking about FAMILIES, I'm talking about the city.
We had moved there from a strictly black side of town, where at least I felt safe.
Blacks don't scare me.
Republicans scare me.
With love, Katrina.