The Lot

An empty space cleared
blue vista where the massive
oak had stood casting shade
on the dirt lot where the dogs
convene containing the stink
of their shit where the sun
will now bake it disseminate
the smell like the burnt-toast air
that blankets the neighborhood
in morning. Drunk men
in the alley have a clearer vista too
of my kitchen where yolks
burst and avocadoes are perfectly
scooped from their skins.
Coffee grounds steep and I see
in the newly shorn sky
a shadow of soiled mattress a
bag of human waste a wasted
bottle of malt liquor quickening
its pace across the dead tree’s grave.