Tumbleweeds

Always on the porch 

looking out but staying in, 

not surprised by metal men 

with gentle lights firmly pressing 

by my shrubs and flowers. 

I do like when wind brushes my hair 

along my face as if someone notices 

I’m standing obediently. 

Dust gets kicked around 

like my heart 

and grasshoppers cavort in ways 

I imagine I would if had days to live. 

My bread is almost ready 

but I want to see where men will go next, 

as if any place is different 

when there is a hole in the middle of us. 

The sound is just a rumble, 

though it might be my blood in my ears 

rushing and pounding like a waterfall 

or maybe a bird taking flight.