if i could cup the face of the street
into my small dry hand
i would kiss her and lull her to rest
i would hum a tune about an old song
that sang about peaches and trees
so tired and awake are her embankments
littered with the scoff of the world
but instead i would tell her of pink snapdragons hula dancing in the mist
instead i cup my own face like a child after a crying attack
my ears stretch for a hum the sound of my mom or at least one lone derelict cricket