Marbles stir in aluminum cans
Along the free wall of Calwa Park
As Fresno’s Lords come out to play
After three days of rain with no shine

I stand and watch these diverse figures
Laugh amongst themselves like old friends do,
As colors hiss between years of overlapping paint
From splattered fingertips that constantly pump love into these sacred bricks

The fumes of nearly empty canisters
Pick the air clean of all the garbage,
Leaving behind a virtually purged
And extinct freedom
That our lungs have never
Had the opportunity to truly adapt to.

These makers must plaster their faces
With filtered breathers and bandanas,
Regalia adorned first and foremost
By a thriving oppressed,
To exclude themselves from the highs of paradise
Which ultimately pick apart their narrative

They have compromised—
These young and olds of art
Have developed this immunity of voice—
This ability to speak through walls as silently as possible so that
no passerby can simply walk along their painted bulletin,
without pausing for a moment to lean in toward its whisper

And I am grateful,
That the history of our people, this struggle for culture
Is allowed to thrive here—and that the pocket change
Thrown into reserving a spot, Goes to replenishing the swingset
on a playground that raised me.

I retire to the sandbox and wait for hours
For these lovers to finish their caressing of walls,
So that I may run my fingers across infinity
For the first time once more.
And in doing so,

I realize, that this park—is the only park,
With swings that allow you to soar higher
Than the lampposts that guard it