what seperates my house from the middle of the street?
nothing; no median of grass or concrete
no yellow lines to cross
nobody drives in the space between your line and mine
the road is rigid, embedded with nails
nails making lines, more lines to cross
more division devised for personality
stay on your side of the road
the lines wont tear
ill keep my reflectors over here
to keep me safe
to seperate me house from the middle of the street


dead grass litters the ground
little brown fingers from below
held still by snow and ice around
not let since spring to grow
little curled dead leaves
shelter the grass in drifts
young gaping mouths of the trees
too many to be missed
death and garbage rot the earth
while burrows freeze in the cold
strange that there will be new birth
from all here thats souls are sold
ill meet you in the spring
to spite the winds that sing