Maples Were Never Meant for The Desert

my dreams lie dormant
amongst this rotting metropolis
nestled beneath the 13th floor awning
cramped in the crevice between
the croissant connoisseurs and the well-dressed men
wielding pink tape measures

my dreams are dying in this suburban shoe box,
lined with thin, decorative paper depicting
midwestern corn fields and a whale journeying home
brown-tipped pothos dangle daintily from the ceiling
peering down at tiny mesquites caught in bear traps
forming an orderly line on the scorching pavement below

as children we ran through the vacant dirt lot
daring one another to taunt the oversized cactus
and bite into the tartness of its swelling purple fruit
in august we watched lightning sprawl across the bay window
though most afternoons, cotton ball dragons filled the sky
until we shoved the day’s treasures in our pockets and ran home

at seventeen, a pamphlet with my name arrived in the mail
depicting towering pines, smiling strangers and bricks the color of dried blood
that brochure sat in my desk drawer for twelve years as I longed to abandon
the beige grey and sage green undertones of my childhood
in the small town that slowly sacrificed its cows and wild-grown cacti
for homes without yards and dead maples that were never meant for the desert