planned community

The evening that Anne Frank's words wash up on our lawn
follows the blue internet day that shows me the map
of a planned community for Gaza, shaped like a gun,
with complex industry spotting the belly of the barrel
and a pink ridge of coastal tourism along the top.

The Palestinians, who have not been consulted,
had plans too: tomatoes, oranges, peppers.
Olives and dates. Children and school.

The nearly grown children at the school
down the street from us protested
ICE yesterday. One of them, probably,
quoted Anne in thick purple marker: 
Terrible things are happening

At any time of the night + day
Poor helpless people are being dragged
out of their homes, families are being

torn apart. 1943, 1984, 2023, 2026
merge into a dull twilight, and that night
I dream that Gazans have 24 hours
to choose between being sealed
inside the plan or roaming free in rubble.

Source: Al Jazeera

The interior is a shiny mall
packed like the Blackest Friday.
Nearly grown children start bands,
everyone has a job,
there's a diner with vinyl booths.

They, the planners, make a game
for us, the planned upon. We chase each other 
on motorized chairs and it's fast

and fun, and if we lose, or if 
our chisme is too loud, or wrong,
punishment is fast as well. We carry
chip cards that always
rat us out.

At least we can see the sky,
I say, looking up at a cloud-strewn blue,
but then it buzzes and sputters

and what's left is a beige
industrial ceiling. The other side of Anne
Frank's poster is half written in pencil:
I'll take—

Below that, the thick
footprint
of a tire