Things, and places make better poems
Than clumsy words could hope to construct.
An alley runs through the middle of my block,
It's lined by wild, and weedy lots
Where cacti and tamarim share the red soil
At night, they're home to crying jackals,
Heat mad cats, and hunting bats
Once, I thought I'd found a gift
A tousle of oleander, Rapunzel's hair
But in the end, it was white hibiscus
A pleasant tea
A justice, dashed.
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