Dumpster in an alley

To start the day

Mornings, I sit at a round-ish table just above the alley.

Mornings, I sit at a round-ish table,
my bare feet tapping against the faux wood grain,
my jungle of knotted hair bobbing to the
beeping garbage trucks, rolling through the alley.
On the counter,
a hand-me-down Mr. Coffee presses 202-degree water
through finely ground beans, stripped from a Honduran farm.
At some point, I will ache upward to the sink,
where I sometimes fill an empty Burger King cup with the leaky faucet
to feed my ashen plants, limping from criminal
neglect (how can I always forget?).
Outside my spidered window, I see a littering of homeless men
in Nikes and jumbled dreadlocks pissing on the dumpster
as the garbage truck clears, and I know it’s time
to start the day.

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For a blink of an I
Paved road winding through a forest

For a blink of an I

Let us not think too much little of us

The Immovable We
Oak tree

The Immovable We

Do you ever tire of standing still and putting up with nature's endless shuffle?

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