when one dog barks, they all do. I hardly recognized my neighbor in a mask, but she knew me in line at the grocery store. her name rhymes with mine. she sits with a six pack on the tilted bench outside my apartment— the same spot where a young girl texts the person she likes. I can tell she does by the way she smiles and looks around like some one caught her stealing. this is the same spot where a woman rocks an infant to the sound of leaves singing in wind, where everyone stuffs ducks with bread, which also make house visits now, and apparently they prefer full loaves to breadcrumbs. Bless what's left of this weather, we all seem to agree and stoop over our porches in our pajamas.
Tag: Fall
Through the Roof
The tree outside my window
with its decaying crabapples,
jaundice yellow leaves, and
the garbage bag the roofers
left behind, claimed by the wind,
now streams from a branch.
A black cape without an owner,
it waves goodbye to summer
when there was a man in every
window. They wore shoes
made of thunder, and they
stormed us from all sides.
Drilling, hammering holes,
peeling pieces off our home.
The deconstruction, a slow,
agonizing exposure, took days.
I awoke to knocking, sideways
picture frames, couches covered
in debris rained from the skylights,
and man crashing through ceiling.