The highway cuts into the subdivision
that cuts into my backyard
that’s cut into the side of a mountain
a few miles south of town.

I lay in my bed,
having long given up on sleep,
and watch the headlights as they dance
across my walls.

I think about the cars that the lights belong to
and the people who own the cars.
I wonder if they’re coming or they’re going
and if they even know that I see the lights.

I can’t decide if I should be interested or irritated.
I decide to be neither.

The trees threaten to fall on the cars
that drive on the highway
cut into the subdivision
cut into my backyard
on the side of the mountain.
So they threaten to cut them down.

It’s a Saturday when the protesters roll in
carrying paper on wood
screaming for us to save the trees.
I watch the irony from the front row window seat
of my bedroom.

I can’t decide if I should be interested or irritated.
I decide to be both.