The city says the pipes are gasping

The city says the pipes are gasping.

The neighbor’s birdbath is a bowl of dust,

a gray silt bed where one leaf

curls up like a dead spider.

But at 2 AM, the hedges across the tracks

start to hiss.

A rhythmic, mechanical rain

hitting the private golf-green grass.

The rich have a different sun.

Their dirt doesn't crack open

to show the dark beneath.

They just pay the fine

and keep the emerald lie growing

while the rest of us turn to salt.