1. The poet plays climatologist

People can’t decide, these days
when leaves are the colours of the sun,
whether to take their jackets off
or sadly, slowly, to leave them on.

2. The poet finds a correlative

After years of clapped-out cars
the parking lot, like me, is numb;
it is stained with motor oil,
I with piss, blood, spit, sweat, come.

3. The poet wishes for a passive death

Smash my skull in, nuke me
Consume me, purge me, puke me.
Void, obliterate me -
Life, I’m tired, hate me.

4. The poet penitent

Tin shacks line the highway
come bitter cold or stifling heat.
I’ve sung “I did it my way” -
I failed - teach me a selfless beat.