Postcards From My Concrete Backyard

I.

in these lengthy summer months

He doesn’t deny us exercise.

we are given yard time

to sun smarting skin

and purpled limbs.

ride our bicycles

in His parking lot

but don’t fall—

we know His concrete

readily claws

at His trapped kin.

II.

her birthday came and I bought her

a book of clichéd poetry

milk and honey— nothing of substance.

He flipped through it

didn’t approve of it

told us to reconvene on the concrete.

stand around the tin can,

strike a match and track

the flames that lick letters

off the pages.

III.

too old for supervised yard time,

I go outside if I so choose.

stand in the garden,

rest my back on the wire fence,

face fractures in aging asphalt

that also appear on the three concrete walls.

spot His army of pigeons that line the ledges

standing at attention

like feathered gargoyles

that rain drops of shit

supervising my self-assigned yard time.