Zoned Residential

The north gate doesn't lock properly.

It just groans and lets the hinges hang.

The bus went by five minutes early,

leaving me to walk through the permanent residents.

One stone says 1990 to 2024.

A full stop in the middle of a sentence.

I’m thirty-six and my knees ache

from standing on concrete for ten hours,

but at least I can still feel the wind.

A plastic wreath is caught in the fence,

faded to the color of a cheap mint,

fluttering like a trapped bird

that isn't going anywhere either.