The suburb of white bread is dead.
It sits lonely in the dusty trophy case
We pass it by and never read the tarnished plaque.
with its faded Leave It To Beaver graffiti,
as our blocks are now spiced
with Sikhs, Serbs, and Salvadorans.
Oh, the old chemical lawns
and dismal architecture are still here.
But so is Beef Biriani, mafé, and
the smells of continents.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem