Writing poetry in the median of an upscale neighborhood

a steady stream of small, new, fuel-efficient cars
barely slow to a stop next to us;
we're sitting on two rocks in the median,
no cardboard signs asking for $1 or some free food
heads down, feet splayed, a lap large enough for a notebook.
it's dusk, the mulch is well trodden,
a few weeds poke through, there are no flowers. 
this place was never adopted like he was,
a baby red-head in diapers.
the rich could love this piece of soil if
they would get out of their cars and get close
to this patch of earth in the dusk as we have,
quietly watching our pens move across paper,
the cars keep rolling by, California style.