hearing nothing but the echo
of thoughts ringing through the air
like a gunshot, exhaust, smog sheltering a city.
They hang over me as strange fruit.
They droop and leer from their cottonwood tree
hideaway, nest, holding an empty noose.
It swings and creaks.
Steps slow on an old hardwood floor,
feet cautious of the cracks in the ground
as if bones will shatter at the wood
croaking its hot breath; down my neck.
I spend the rest of my days here,
writhing in the exhaust.
Its sweltering breath creaks and moans,
its branches let snow fall.
They stretch to knock me
so, they can hear the echo too.