Natalie Cohen

cobblestoned road,

faded, wine-flavored,

crawls through a jaded

neighborhood filled with

parking-obsessed hypocrites,

   (such as my dad,

      but don’t tell him that).

there’s a

trail across the street

where he used to take us butterfly-catching

and dandelion-picking, their

white wings and

even whiter buds

beckoning to ten- and seven-year-old us.

gravel-strewn, filled with

insects unknown,

i can’t help but fall in love with this home,

with its Dame’s rockets shooting out of the ground,

purple prose scattered around our


lonesome house.