October Lean

The neighbor’s giant finally snapped.

It’s slumped across the chain-link wire

like a drunk who lost his keys,

stripped of all its yellow fire.

Its face is a black and heavy plate,

bowing toward the cracked cement.

It looks ashamed of how it grew,

how much of the sun it actually spent.

Now the seeds fall out like buckshot,

clattering on the walk in the breeze.

I want to stand it back up,

but the frost is already at its knees.