I

content
in its octagonal redness
the unassuming monarch
of this street-corner kingdom
sits in silent judgement
over the endless pilgrimage
of gas-powered subjects
who pause
one by one
to pay homage

II

snuggled up
against the weathered curb
the humble storm drain
eagerly swallows
an oily elixir of
waterlogged leaves
and soggy cigarettes
and wonders
what it would be like
to be a manhole cover

III

convicted
the naked and bleeding
stump
stands sentenced
in the cement shackles
of its parking-lot prison
its severed boughs
guilty
of having stood defiantly
in the path
of progress

IV

proudly perched
high on its pole
the streetlamp
cold
white
lightless in the afternoon sun
stares down
from its airy vantage
and illuminates
nothing