Anti-Pastoral
By Chelle Miko

So sue me. So what if I look up to gray?
At least it doesn't make excuses for high rise windows
curtained with dust from swarming taxis.
Believe it or not, I can doze right through the racket
of this flat, even after coffee. What I can’t take
is some lost pigeon chiming my sill
10 minutes before the alarm. Same goes
for that tree-hugger on 7^th and Main? Please!
Show me a nest not at risk to a smoking chimney.
 

Tell me. What good is a token
except to board the El? If that old oak’s still kicking
up curbs, dig up its roots and smother what’s left
with cement—make a bench. Plant a parasol.
 

I can always spot the tourists: they plod like fools
through gated grass, throw crumbs at stuffed ducks.
Yep. You guessed it: not one pigeon here!
Only sightseers who titter and peer into pond scum,
patting their defaced hair, as if all of us weren't entombed
by towering mirrors. After dark, I’ve seen them
crane their necks as if they've never once considered
the moon as more than a light excuse
for looking up—can’t they see it’s an urban comma
between day and night?
 

If the flower vendor insists on wheeling his cart
to the corner now and again, his riotous remark
is more than enough to revive my imagination.

I can practically fill a vase with it.

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