fall came in
like a drunk friend pounding on the door
before you’ve even touched caffeine.
one day it was dust and dogs panting
under a white sky that wouldn’t quit,
the next it was rain, no
not rain,
but the kind of downpour that makes the gutters
speak in tongues.
a year’s worth, they said,
all at once,
like the sky lost patience
with the calendar.
the fig vine bent like an old man,
the alley smelled of wet newspaper and oil,
and even the crows
looked surprised.
this wasn’t romance,
no first kiss of autumn,
no pumpkin-spiced anything.
it was fall
as impatient as a six-year-old
trying on a costume too early,
banging the door with a plastic sword,
yelling trick-or-treat
at noon.
and L.A., poor bastard,
opened up anyway.
