Williamsburg Road

urban weeds

East of the city,
there are tall pines standing
scant and sentry, as if they knew
this were the road to the ocean.

Amid dandelioned lawns
and asphalt wasteland, gas
is cheaper, repair shops
like mushrooms:

frequent and lightly
unsavory. On Sundays
at the carwash,
every concrete cave

is full, as though
we could siphon
off the week’s sins
with high-suction

hoses; April
has always been
a month for pollen
and repentance.

(she spends) April’s Tuesdays

Massaging quotidian
heartaches and
pouring
poison
down the kitchen sink,
clipping coupons from Nike’s wings
while lip-synching to gypsy notes
caught on the tails
of fast-moving clouds and
sipping salted spring
sunshine
left behind in
other languages.
Drawing flowers
from rusted faucet drips
on smudged
granite dreams,
breathing deep
of coffee steam
and bleach while
ironing out
the imperfections
of pore and
past. Studying up
on forgetting.
Practicing
for her
prime time
debut. Playing
barefoot and
dancing naked
and whispering
loudly the
secrets
no one wants
to hear and maybe
even
writing a
poem.