(The evening shade pulls over suburbia on a random Monday.)
There is chatter in the street, the hollow
thwack thwack thwack rattle of a basketball
game, the whoosh of a neighbor’s SUV.
The mesquites are tucking themselves in
under this foggy blanket silver sky. An airplane
whine lends its voice, scrapes a trail of white.
The streets were washed right clean today
by rain, and stones still glisten with its
memory. Our flowering plums have shed
flower and fruit, but their aubergine leaves
cast color against the stucco walls, staccato
calls of young children echoing.
:: I no longer know where I am going.