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.
Lots of great images in this piece, I love the description of the elderly landlady.