The Leaves...

I keep asking if
anyone else thinks
the world around
here is dying.

The trees look dead,
the grass looks dry,
and my backyard
has been made a golf course.

Even he forgets
himself
why he came.

I keep waking up wondering
how my bed
got at this angle
and then staring at the trees,

and the sky before thinking:
it's time to get out of bed.

I wonder what he knows
about the patches
of dirt where the grass used to be;

I wonder what he knows
about the branches ten feet tall
with blossoms about them.

Even new company stays the same,

and all the dead trees ever do
is fall between the boredom
of the sky and ask:
what have you been doing?