Orange Street

Outside my window
the bush goes on,
the pink blossoms of weeks ago
having long fallen,
first into white flowers,
then into brown summer crust,
perhaps some new leaves,
perhaps some seeds,
in the promised offing.

I sit here as usual,
watching as the summer
sets itself in,
taking up residence,
driving out residents;
the wealthy
and those who make the margin
of scanty savings to spend,
heading off for the north,
for Europe, for California,
and better climes the world round.

I, still here,
still watching,
still waiting to come alive,
still waiting for that burst,
that blossom,
that ambition realized;
waiting confusion's end of despair,
waiting for a fantasy,
sitting here
for something,
someone,
for some transformation to redeem it all.

Meanwhile, the bush goes on.
Slowly,
it needs fertilizer,
someone to prune it.
But not for me.
Why slow the spread
into lifeless leaves
and barren twisted trunk?
The leaves move year by year,
from fertile center source of earthly life,
dissipated as the bush
reaches for the sun.
The bush,
missing the forgotten forest floor,
forgotten through years
of domesticated beauty,
made unfit
for any but semi-suburban streets
and 80 year old negligent landlords.