the pours

The green, planty part looks painted onto the concrete tumbler, but it's not. We toss pulled weeds over the fence's thorns, into the patch of rocky dirt along the alleyway. The weeds dig their migrant roots in and bud up around the garbage cans. Some are taller than I can reach. Some are a tangle, a mound, ground-feeders. All told, it's a small jungle of neglect and indifference.

The neighbors must hate us.