His alabaster hands rise toward mine.
Are there any real people left he asks?
I have no answer for him, I only
know they don’t live on my street.
This graphic place has become my disaster,
The altitude brings me chills in his mourning
amongst the chaos in my cacti and agave garden.
I can’t see the plastic consumed landfill from
here, but sense its existence. I can’t see
seagulls circling the foul mess searching for
a scrap of bread, yet I know they’re not far from here.
Every morning it’s cold and the nights are even worse.
I force my feelings into a small box, I am done
asking why any of this has happened.
Death’s cloud surrounds me in this square room
while I sleep. I want to touch his hands one more time,
but I can’t reach them.