Why don’t I mind
the green dumpsters
with trash bags pecked full of grackle-holes, and
soggy cardboard boxes
whose rotting contents have spilled
onto the pavement?
and tortilla boxes are obstacles
on my sleepy walk to school.
On wet days, a trickling stream
leads from the drain,
past the piles of bike wheels,
around the corner.
In drier times, the stream becomes
in which green goo grows
happily in the scorching sun,
and grackles bathe with relish.
Tangled power lines gather,
some drooping ominously,
providing perfect perches for
the screeching, feasting birds.
But from my penthouse,
through the screenless window,
in the fading light, the rooftops
with their air ducts and fans,
and the stadium beyond,
Striking is perhaps a better word.
A well groomed lawn’s got nothing
on my alley.