Toyon and chokecherry, fresh shoots
if the rains will visit us before you do.
Else you crack our black bins, crash in,
bust glass for a look in the fridge,
and wash it all down in our too-blue pools.
While we are busy measuring money,
you are teaching timing, how to scale
tree, and outsit patience.

And what do we seem to you?
We are your drug pushers,
your AA sponsors,
your nurturers of lures,
your bait-and-switch marketers,
a whole L.A. basin of accidental killers.
The corridor of Monrovia is your final den
of thieves who have stolen you from foraging.
And you, you bungling, sweet cousins of dogs—
sniffing for pizza some fuck left out—
you believe, as much as you can believe,
that when you dine here,
you will live.

Copyright © 2015, Timothy Tiernan


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About writingseraph

I write. I share. I test out language here.

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