Where I live the apples
grow green, too wormy
to eat.
Where I live the cold empty
park benches cry
out for attention.
Where I live,
the street lamps hang
over me, faded and forlorn,
shedding light
on my path.
In a flash of silver
and red
a car passes,
Allowing me to get just
a glimpse, of an old
gray cat,
running out from underneath
its home of a black
SUV.
Where I live the radio’s opinion
leaks through open
windows,
whether I care or not.
It’s almost too easy
to notice the oxymoron
of feeling alone,
but knowing you’re not.