Budding branch tips, little turrets of glee,
browned and fallen in a few weeks, the smog’s children.
Winter drops like a dead roach hidden in the doorjamb,
accidentally crushed when I last came home drunk.
The hurricanes avoided us this year. Good riddance.
Every concrete side street is an oven and we cook
at an even pace, skin crisping to our seasoned taste.
The dirt fronting my house hosts neglected bushes,
no space for bare feet, but still I thorn my toes in deep.
There is no death in nature, no sadness, no flattened
raccoon who I saw last night re-organizing my trash.
The air is pollen-soaked, but inside, a spider
knits a quilt for the window.
