these caravan walls
crave flesh,
eat residents
and bury their femurs
in dandelions  
growing up
from the front steps.
a boy
makes it past
the threshold,
but a man remembers
the blue eyes
and brown soil
where he planted
a garden.
some weeds
will never die,
and what he learned
of the world
is already wilting
in his glove-box.
most weeks
hope drives off
in semi-trucks,
leaving an americano
growing colder,
on counters
in cups
between hungry walls
made in the u.s.a.,
and ever blacker.



                   *mzf