Sometimes, when parking at a clean local
conglomerate, the two-foot evergreens
sparse and square, I hope the caffeine of a
spilled latte will stream across the concrete
and seep around their roots, giving them the
boost they need to extend their limbs again,
an abstract proud, and that I, emerging
from the entrance, will find the shield, its sheath
pierced by the rough fingers of its noble
predecessors. Sometimes, I hope the sky
will open downward and show me something
horrible, something lovely and grotesque,

which may slow the pressure in my sternum,
focus this tantalizing suffering.