Thrown Away

In the threads

of my cars’ tires

remnants of

city streets attach

themselves like

ghosts, memories,

faces and screams,

conversations,

the smell of food,

strange sounds,

the absence of

what cannot be

found, silence,

and decay.

In the tire threads,

the cold and heat

of city streets are

contained and

thrown away. They

ride over the remains

of all that have lived.

The potholes strike

back, to get even, to

the point of puncture,

until they are

replaced and

thrown away.

The River’s Lament

The river gorges

on car tires,

bicycles, and

poisoned fish.

No one could hear

its lament, its need

for cleansing

of all it consumes.

It is fearful of

night, where the

polluters empty

their waste into

its liquid belly.

Oil, car batteries,

dead bodies,

anything at all.

It never rests.

Boats use it for

good and bad things.

Human waste

floats to the top.

Moon River does

not say it all.

Who wants to hear

the river’s lament?

Everyone should

before it’s too late,

before it runs dry.

My Window

My window

faces a

wall with bricks

painted white.

There is one

brick missing

where you could

see for miles.

Through there you

could see the

falling rain

and blackbirds

flying to

the sun, and

another

window that

faces my

window with

another

brick missing

and I could

see myself.