Down here the weeds grow tall and white

Down here, the weeds grow tall and white,

starved for anything like a decent light.

The traffic overhead is a heavy thud,

a heartbeat vibrating through the mud.

I found the ball near a concrete pier,

where the rebar pokes out, jagged and clear.

It looks like a rib that’s rusted through,

holding up a street

that doesn't know it’s split in two.