Zuckerberg

Zuckerberg

For a year I lived on the same street, 
21st. Yes, like the century. 
The difference was that his place was 
A raven-like Victorian with a view 
While mine was a basement studio 
For which I somehow paid 
Two thousand a month. 
There was a column in the dead
Center of the room so that 
I was never not aware 
Of the whole house above me.
An earthquake would have kicked it
Away like a slipped jack. 
On the wall a mirror had been hung 
To make the room seem bigger. 
It doubled the little I owned. 
I had twice as many books, had 
Had twice as many beers. 
My reflection kept me company.
My landlady was a psycho-
Therapist, and blind. She gardened, 
Feebly, by feel, the view lost upon her.
Her eyes were like soft places
That swallow your steps in a meadow.
I was careful not to scare her
When I went upstairs to do laundry,
But in trying not to scare her
I scared her. Most nights I got drunk 
On Valencia. Walking uphill up 21st, 
There would always be an SUV idling 
In front of Zuckerberg’s house.
The man inside was one of those men 
Who cling to another man’s money 
Like monarchs to a eucalyptus tree.
Most nights I was drunk enough
To knock on the window and ask
A question I already knew the answer to.
Did Mark Zuckerberg really live there?
They must have been told not to say,
But they told me yes with their eyes.
Laughing at living on the same street
As one of the richest men on earth,
I'd fumble with my keys and stumble 
Into my doubled room, walking straight
Into the column I never seemed able
To believe was there, but knew had to be.