In a postage stamp borough,
Wide-low windows stare at a street
stripped to its cobblestone corners.
The crocodile cracks expose the clip, clop, clock
of workers’ hammers a hundred summers before.
Tear it down, boys,
nobody needs a souvenir
of a summer at home
where teens fall asleep
on glowing texty homophones,
and the terrier listens under the bed
to our bone-cold conditioners
coloring rooms purple.
The leaves are starting to brown
from fits and fights against repeating myself
with the same go around—
Get serious, boy, fall is coming.
And all elbows and knees with bees in the trees,
my boy
my boy,
breaks out of me.
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