Neighborhood Fritterers

We fritter closeness to the end of our times.
Our line acid limes burn our skin in the sun.
We once again forgot to wear gloves.

When a seven-ton truck strides down the small street
I like to think of the asphalt kissing concrete
committing a civilizational forever
material material love.

The sidewalk bushes gave their deposition
with head in hands shame the name
of this magenta grain ungained on
by the powers that tree.