Intrusion

The landlord is swearing into the trench.

The front walk is open, a raw, clay mouth

spitting up the smell of old grease

and things we should have flushed.

He pulls it out—a root as thick as my wrist,

covered in white, hairy fibers.

It found a seam in the cast iron

and just kept pushing

until the metal gave up.

It’s beautiful, in a way,

how a tree will choke a house

just to get a drink.