CANCELLATION IN THE KEY OF FIGS

This morning: steady gusts of wind.
A squirrel scampers up a tree, stands
on its back legs, flicks its tail. The window’s open,
 
and Johnny Cash croons a love song
about the absent sun. Maybe I’ll cancel dinner
with a friend, climb the fig tree, and fight birds
 
for its fruit. I walk down the hill, hands
in my pockets, and linger at the blackberry brambles
that line a fence. Juice stains my hands. I pass
 
my old school, my friend’s childhood home.
The park bench where I first kissed someone:
On the count of three. I pass the old motel,
 
the neon sign flickering. The scent of jasmine.
On the curb, a box of family photos, labeled Free.