The first warm day when leaves burst
out of their cocoons with green, plied buds,
pickup trucks zoom out on the arterial
like oversized bugs caught in the wires
of the ant hill, carried on the shoulders
of hundreds of red-black dots with hairy
worming, electric restlessness,
even the sluggish, bald neighbor
digs out a rusted rake from the garage
and makes to gather putrid leaves
from several years, only after five yards
chokes, halts, turns back to the house,
rummages through the fridge, lights a cigarette
and collapses in a wicker chair, taking a long
swig from his cold ten AM beer.
Meanwhile, the pedophile across the street wakes up
and goes out for a stroll in his black overcoat,
his antennae flickering fast
between the corners of the street, caught
between two corrugated walls, whistling
softly at the mere glimpse of a light pink
camisole, polka dot flip flops,
lingers in front of the gas station,
hacks a persistent phlegm, spits
on the pavement, spreads it with the heel
of his torn shoe smudging it, careful
not to step into the dried-up carcass
of a squirrel flattened, brittle, paper thin,
the delicate smell of spring folded in
the spicy, satiating whiff of gasoline.
