my street

a tire swing with rusted chain
that’ll snap soon
a pit bull happy in the yard, digging
bluejays return each year
to destroy rival eggs
the girl living in that window
shoots them with her BB gun
a nameless cat
collects their heads

oak tree growing in and through
the power lines
yesterday a crew painted it orange
a row of Xs
many cigarettes were smoked
staring up into those
electrified branches

now: lichen on old brick
asbestos singles
no one want to strip
kites wrapped around
the phone lines
the thud thud thud
of a basketball distant

there must be a lake here
somewhere stocked with fish
on warm mornings a man
in a maroon hat
walks down the street
with his fishing pole and bucket
“where do you go?”
“I can’t tell” he says
“come on”
“well, I could, I mean–
but I’d have to kill you”
sometimes his bucket
is still flopping around
and he’s whistling

the ice cream truck
has better plans
for better streets
I can smell a wood fire
it’s the first day of spring
the air tastes like smoke
somewhere bees are sleeping

a mailbox, the exact replica
of a certain house
overflows with paper
rumor is, they’re losing the house
but will they take the mailbox?

down the hill, six cars
rest under blue tarps
I wonder what cars they are
but I never lift the tarp
I don’t want to be disappointed
never meet your heroes
mine: the quiet kid who never misspeaks


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