My street smells like peaches
in the middle of the night
when I’m drunk
Or perhaps that’s just what I imagine
so tired of the scents of
crowded bars and cigarettes
and stuffy cabs on
humid nights so withering
that I forget it’s autumn and not
the middle of summer
as I stumble over darkened
root-fingers that want me to stay
and sit among the leaves
and scampering anoles
and tell tall tales about the night
I was accosted by the peach trees
