This Neighborhood
With its postage stamp lawns, row
after row of them,
the grass now a mottled green and yellow
where years of dog piss
have burned past the roots,
and the arching maples,
some splitting in half, rotten
at their cores,
roots gnarled around themselves,
suffocating under cracked concrete,
maples spitting whirly seeds
into our clogged gutters
and down into our weedy flower beds,
here and there a fresh stump
in the middle of sprayed sawdust,
and our houses -- peeling stucco,
faded plastic siding,
ripped awnings
banging against front porches
in a wind
that pushes dried leaves
and half built robins’ nests --
crowded up against each other,
knocking elbow to elbow,
this neighborhood sheds another
winter skin
and blows it up
with dust
into the still-cold sky
where planes fly low
and away,
dragging their silver bellies
over our roofs
like missed wishes.
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