Kate Wright
TODAY, A MAN BURNS SOMETHING BY MY DUMPSTER
my view obscured by wooden fence
designed to protect eyes from trash.
Bluish smoke rises as he stands
idle, leaning on a car I’m not sure
is his. Maybe he’s grilling, I wonder.
I’ve seen him before with his roommate
and cooler of beer, tossing a football—
and ah, here’s the other, arms full
of drinks and wrapped meats. I am jealous
of their companionship. Day 39 of self-isolation
and the interior of my apartment irks me.
I have taken to the balcony with a view
over the dumpster, these boys. The corgis
who live on the first floor across the lot
press their noses to screen door. The cum trees
are blooming—tiny white flowers in salty
sea-scented glory—and it makes my morning
solo runs feel like an unfair walk of shame—
no lover left, no morning aubade,
just endless return to an empty home—
dishes crusted in the sink.