Bluebloods and just plain rich
perambulated along Brookline Village
in striking Yves Saint Laurent's couture
with a scent of Joy titillating nostrils.
Others cruised in Continentals
or Caddys to their landscaped Tudors
with white begonias perfuming the air.
Our ebony family moved into this
pristine alabaster community one April,
where summers on Cape Cod or the French Riviera
and winters in Vail or Gstaad were the norm.
Incentives to persuade us to leave
their postcard town were communicated
through silence, hostile glares and strewn garbage
upon our manicured emerald lawn. Our neighbors
also raced to move their Cadillacs
when I backed our Buick out of the driveway.
We fought cruel indignities
until I moved abroad
and our family sold our house
to a white family
As newlyweds, we drove by five years later
to see my former homestead on Gardner Road.
Lovely birch trees and shrubs were uncared for,
the grass had a month of overgrowth
and the shingled sprawling chocolate house
Three years later,
our mansion had been replaced
by a large, sterile nursing home.