It’s 90 in the shade. The hawthorn shares
Its leaves, its thorns, botanical debris,
And squirrels and does it all ungrudgingly,
All without affect. If it thinks, it thinks
Of roots and where they’re headed, of the nice
Vitreous clay pipe a little to the south,
Not of the hoarder and the house she had
Across the street. Tornadoes would have loved it.
The ambience was right, the floor a blitz
Of concrete, mud, and glass. It showed no shame
And more shade, even, than the hawthorn tree;
And shades await, if all the tales are true,
Across the tracks from piles of beauty books,
Tampon boxes, milk of magnesia sweet
As locust shells, and bags of dried-up pens.
The hawthorn leaves are planning for October.
