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?

One thought on “Scorch”

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