Clement Street

There are no traffic laws on Clement Street

No turn signals or appropriate stops at signs

So close to the park, this is pedestrian land. 

Hundreds of tiny stores line the stout street 

As people pool and walkers swell through

Dodging kids with scraped knees on Razor scooters

With party snaps popping on the pavement behind them

Embedded in family-owned shops 

Bizarre magic vibrates in forgotten corners

Legible to those who love a place like a living thing

And hidden to transient eyes 

On Second the bistro beckons

French delicacy waves and lures with a woman in a white hat

For the faces that form familiarity,

The head chef waits at the door to greet you, hold your neck, and kiss your cheeks

On Fourth you begin to salivate 

The smell of fresh crepes wafts from a battered orange awning 

The square of block erupting in aroma.

The entrance full of gachapon machines brimming with tchotchkes 

Waiting for their quarters to claim them 

On Seventh strings of dim sum bakeries radiate their own perfume

Fried ducks crane their hanging necks to observe passersby

Colluding in their cash-only window seats

Standing and steadfast through the ever-changing atmosphere 

Across the road, cluttered with double parkers and delivery trucks

The used bookstore grins with its trademark leprechaun 

Labrynthian shelves twist on top of each other 

They bloom book stacks and bestsellers.

Wilt in raised rents and compromise with tacky tote bags

On Sixth a five-foot flower shop hides an ancient aquarium 

Koi, Beta, and Clown sold for a dollar 99

Wistful children lucky enough to know this secret press their noses on the glass

Impatient parents pointing out cheaper options

On Fifth the baby blue ice cream store overflows with 50s-style toys

Wallace and Gromit figurines leering over Rocky Road

And classic comic book icons show off waffle cones.

Scare after scare, but year after year it’s still there

Laundry Mats and Variety Shops

Outdoor produce and grocery store fish tanks 

The crowds ebb and flow through lunchtimes, grabbed drinks, and last minute shopping

It needs not natives,

Its body born of dedicated neighbors 

Backbone of lifelong residents and immigrants alike

Its heart, the disappearing children of a city that priced out fertility

It coughs and sputters boutiques selling expensive nothings

It bleeds in bakeries, bookstores, and dance studios that could not keep up

It heals in markets, artists, and farmers, lifting local work 

Survival in the families that fight to stay

It enforces bus stops and good walking shoes 

It beats and breathes

It persists 

and somehow 

It still exists

Campbell Simmons is a poet and Richmond District native.