I’m at the helm on my back porch
totally in charge of nothing on Easter morning
but my coffee and the birdseed
I’ve scattered for sparrows
across the carport roof  
as I sit here overlooking the parking lot
of the Vietnamese laundromat.

There’s a great clamor and excitement
a festival feeling in the cool morning air
in front of the warehouse on the corner
as Mexicans, Salvadorans, Nicaraguans
break out pink and white ice cream carts
to pedal through the neighborhood ringing bells
to awaken flocks of shrieking children.

The sides of the El Tio Juan taco truck pulse
oompahs from tubas now at home in Mariachi
to declare music’s democratic heart in Oakland’s mix.

In the thirties El Tio Juan’s taco truck
was Casper’s hot dog cart, arrived like a covered wagon
from the Dust Bowl. Salsa has replaced Ketchup
as America’s favorite condiment, recipes and instruments,
are among what people carry dearly
fleeing war, following dreams. 

Wary sparrows, eyes out for the cat
lounging in spring ivy climbing onto the carport roof,
hang back, perched
on the birch tree’s dangling limbs
in a hierarchy known only to them
then chance it, splash down
their sporadic pecking
pattering the plywood like beginning rain.

Corn kernels in the birdseed sparkle
the sun softly rising
people gathering below
line up at the truck for coffee
to take refuge in what’s at hand—
the smell of sizzling chorizo,
to watch soccer on TV in the shade
under the awning as laundry spins.

A passing blue Mustang rapping rhyme
snaps along synapses dormant for years
setting off new neurons like a string of firecrackers
a bass line breaking in thunderous waves from speakers
so explosive the air shudders and Gospel soars
on the torn wings of an organ pumping out praise
because the storefront church across Foothill is open
receiving people dressed up for Easter—
dudes in sharp cream-colored suits
women’s hats flouncing like fuchsias
patent leather shoes buffing concrete steps 
as if shushing the celebrants
into the House of the Lord.

The couple in the parking lot
living out of their car
four or five days now,
having awakened slowly, attend
their toiletries. After he shaves
in the sideview mirror she seats herself
on a stool from somewhere
and allows him to comb her hair in the sun.

Dipping his comb into a bucket of water
he snaps off a whip of drops, lifts it aloft,
a baton between forefinger and thumb
conducting the entire spectacle
before drawing filaments of light
through the grain of her hair
—his movements sacramental
her chaste, expectant stillness
sustains a grace so silent
you can hear the ’hood sing.