I smoke cigarettes on the porch on the corner.
It’s Monday. Massive log trucks roll by; tourists,
sailing along with their boats on trailers roll by;
morning, aimless, rolls on by my local coffeecup.
Four wild rosebushes, almost history, stand,
surveilling the lawn beside. Three black crows
mutter, complaining from otherwise silent trees,
reflecting on clouded blue air with ravenous eyes.