I wish it were lemons that I drive over.
Not fruit at all in fact - it’s just some tinfoil.
It flashes in the sun, the burn marks
visible only on cloudy days.
Every size and shape, torn by
(shaking) human hand -or starving stray
dog’s mouth- litters this mud and rubble
track not fifteen meters from the front
door. Strange fruit of strangers’ addiction
scarring dry grass; the dragon’s chased breath is
flammable and burns much more than dreams.
