One grimy corner in the middle of the street,

On a porch so surrounded 

By lovely trees,

I can't see the people talking,

But I always hear a man,

And he's either in his phone,

Or sometimes, I hear a woman's voice, too,

And they're griping about someone

And what said someone said to someone else,

And what someone texted someone,

Et cetera et cetera.

And I smell the cigarette smoke,

And I hear their drunken drama,

And I wish the trees could speak louder,

So that above the din,

I could simply hear the mysteries of photosynthesis.

-jenn