 My poem is inspired by one of my clients, I'm a tax preparer here in San Francisco, who just lost her apartment from Ellis Act. So the title of this poem is Ellis Act in San Francisco, California. 120 days, I'm still angry at the fog that curls and hangs above the rooftop of my apartment, like a ghost at the past of this Victorian house. Morning ache, I feel the angry turn of my landlord is still looking for me anyway, oblique to get me out of this contract. Harden, encrusted, banished her, I stayed at this apartment for a hundred months. Ink stains, time prints on all letters, calendar bills, and even the last sticky notes. Distilted chairs, I cling to climb the rugs. Letters and all the yawning firescapes. The landlord's silence frightens me most. There is something behind the smoke alarms. Even the cockroaches knew something is coming up. The burden I carry pushing my baggage outgrown garbage to another place. His silence should have warned me through the years. The look, brute knives, during his last visit. I know my rights, I said, trying to tie up loose ends, looking for some conversation, for sentiment, for memory, and unclutter the tables and the closets. I kept a child in my room. I said, I cannot leave him behind. My only hope, my only life, are you deaf in both ears? I asked him, hearing the cries of the abandoned child. No sound, he replied, as I locked the door and closed the windows. My child is still screaming in my mind. Thank you so much.