We call this place
Ten Oaks for the trees
that used to live here
before we pulled up
the trees and
put down the pavement.

All these toothless dryads.
Uprooted from their trees
and rehomed on stick-legs,
light poles, they hide their faces,
cabled together in rows.
We stripped off their leaves,
and stapled them with leaflets,
fliers rotting in the rain.

The water sprites lurk in
storm drains and gutters
because their streams
have been rerouted
or filled in. At the least
the rain freshens things
for them, for a while.

Don’t look for the gnomes
tending the dark soil:
they broke open their heads
on the asphalt’s underside,
trying to break through.
Even the cracks don’t
go deep enough for them
to find the air.

The only thing growing here
is the litter pushed around
by the wind.

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