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Upon Hearing Your Building is up for Sale by Gabriel Cortez

Upon Hearing Your Building is up for Sale
 
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Gabriel Cortez 
Notes from an open house
It’s hard not to cheer for the brother 
that claims he bought weed 
from Ta-Nehisi Coates at Howard

or the hairdresser that compliments your fade 
then asks about the plastic step by the toilet, 
making you the first to introduce her to the phrase,

“Squatty Potty.”

It’s hard not to wish them luck, 
the Black buyers, when your landlord 
puts the building up for sale.

Today, 30 strangers shuffle through 
your ground floor, north-facing apartment, 
each wearing a different shade of “

“I’m sorry to disturb you” is followed by 
“Thank you for opening your home.” 
As if we owned the lock, the key, the hinges.

“Landlord” is a 15th-century word

so feudalism never ended, 
it just put on a surgical mask, 
learned to take its shoes off at the door.

A man taps the walls with his knuckles, 
searching for rot. It is polite 
when he points to the paint bubbling beneath the window

and shares the diagnosis: “water damage.”

You don’t know which embarrassments 
are yours and which to give back 
by the end of the month.

Someone asks, “How’s the neighborhood?” 
And you wonder how to protect 
what you are only borrowing.

This small sliver of Oakland, 
where the children ask you your favorite animal 
and the animal becomes your name.

Where a brother plays soul music 
from his window, and that’s how Sam Cooke 
ended up at your wedding.

Maybe it’s the L.A. in you, 
Los Angeles, where your people 
owned nothing but the Fatburger between your fingers,

not even the contested colors of your block, 
that inspires you to start banging on each new stranger 
parading through your home, demanding to know,

“Where you from?”

And even though 
you are not from here or there either, 
you keep a quiet tally of their responses.

So quiet, by your window, you can hear the realtor 
discussing with a man that was just inside your kitchen 
why the rent is so low for the area.

And it’s not. But you know the sound of a hungry dog 
or the scent of an oilman determined to drill when he says, 
“You’ll get my offer by the end of the month.”

😊😊😁🤔🤔😎😉😉 This poem was read by Sally Asmundson at A Poetry Gathering on 4/30/2025