Chalk drawings on sidewalks stamped “1912”.
Piano lessons vibrate
through old window panes in a white house.
At the park I walk across the crab grass population
that has arisen in the baseball diamond.
A little league football team is far out on the
grass sea
sitting in a circle
like sprouted mushrooms in their round, white
helmets.
The trees are afire with the dying light of day;
God's slow fireworks, evidence of the end.
The bathroom beckons, a lonely shed for waste,
waiting.
Its iron door creaks as I open it.
Soon I stand pissing, having done so only five
minutes before at my apartment.
I curse God for my small bladder,
then apologize in case he or she is real.
In the corner of the field
is a pile of wood chips.
The trees tremble at it.
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