Why did I stop seeing you?
With your jagged sidewalks, sunflower showers, and land locked hippie vessels. And cats. So many cats.
Overstuffed couches line uneven porches sprinkled with ashtrays and guitar strings. Lime green shotguns and failed tomato dreams. Those salty silk flowers and that weird fake deer.
The towering turquoise with her sister muted pewter. Side by side, forever trying to look taller than each other, only to share a shadow.
The wall is alive with reflections of these tattered castles. Hometown cap tipped to the side with a smirk. Pinky flutters her lashes from the corner.
Cluttered porches, their cavernous underbellies littered with turnt clay pots and ivy. A dusty beater with a plastic throne tossed upon his head like a crown.
Shotgun soldiers line the high and tight street. Sunset smashing off the Stacks. God’s house. Nestled high in this kooky cabbage patch. A remodel fantasy perched at the dead end. Who will fill her holes?
Top secret chicken coup. Mustang man salutes. The American flag blocks my sunlit welcome window. The grassy inbetweener. Our laughter and songs still echo in the siding; a sepia tone flashback to innocence.
Glass globes and painted pots balance on a narrow railing. Just waiting to be toppled by a bored teenager. Or a drunk yuppie. Or the tornado. Again.
Then there’s Linda. Oh Linda. Still shuffling on. Like you are. She cracks a crooked smile.
Around the namesake bend, Oakland winks at us. Oh the secrets she keeps. Seducing our winding ways.
My dear Cabbagetown, so perfectly imperfect. How sticky and familiar to bump into your ugly beautifuls.
Laura B is a native Atlantan with a love for ritual, poetry, and wandering. This poem is inspired by a sunset walk through the twisted charm of Cabbagetown.
Art and photo by Phillip Oliver.