Scorch
When were we going
to call the guy in again
with his potional chemicals–
some sort of injection to save
the leaves? He said it
wouldn’t die and
he’s right so far. Not dead.
Maybe dying. There’s nothing but
the brown dapple of too-soon
fall. Nothing but the pretty
pied crispness of the leaves
shushing me as I clatter
out the door. I always clatter.
My heels always knock
on the door. It tries
to catch me fleeing. The gas
in the hydraulic closer hisses
like the cats who cluster
on the other side of it, their eyes
green like the leaves
should be but aren’t. Gold like
the leaves somewhat are.
Anxious that I might keep
going and the solid front door
never shut. It would never
block the pretty pinky-orange
girl cardinal who wants to break
the windows with her head.
With her beak the color of field
corn. Fierce as sunlight in August.
I heard the sudden suburbia
in my mind as I grabbed
the mail. Would a sickly tree
knock a thousand from the asking price
or more? How much more?
!!