The Little Roadside

Gate flies open and the basket falls
Gale’s blowing a desert scorched
But mellow, she thinks about 
The tall grey house, light dappled by the grate
Smell of traffic and wet cardboard
And sighs
A bad memory isn’t as useful
To fasten you down
When Kansas is burning
With a strange wind uninvited
She scoops her ankles through the windowsill
Feet on the counter, hand in the fruitbowl
Whilst a warm tornado gathers
She likes to self soothe
By smelling nectarines
And has been doing it for years