In the morning you notice
the spiny palm in next door’s garden
has a sickly lean.
It’s probably older than you
a thousand yellowing arms
pointing all directions.
On your white kitchen tile
by your white kitchen bench
you wonder
if roots can knit like bone
if a better use of your time
would be to climb the fence
and wedge yourself
against the trunk.
The first night
your breath condenses
under the wailing flight path.
Up and down from the Austin
sirens tell
disasters
and minor disasters.
I’ll never finish On the Road.
Eventually, the trunk rubs away skin.
People bring
cushions, guitars
looks of concern.
You become
friends with your neighbour’s
kids, his wife starts
avoiding the back garden.