Mother Told Me

Six wheeled trucks through
the residential,
low pine branch broken,
dangling accusation
on the march of cement.

Below the bluff house
of the forgotten Hurok
tsunami jetsam confounds
the beach.

A carbonated footprint
on the sands of time,
celebrating trees
with plastic magnets.

My mother told me
to forget poetry
and write bumper stickers.

The margin for prophets
wide as streets paved in gold.