My Urban Forest

Dogs are coyotes, the street's a quiet stream.

The wind
blows me down the hill,
until I take a seat 
on a white metal chair
outside the coffee shop
at the intersection 
of Texas and 22nd Streets.

Then I close my eyes,
face the sun, 
the white metal chair's
a rock or maybe a log,
the street's a quiet stream
and the curb
an undercut bank.

The trees
are trees,
the wind
now a soft breeze,
bits of paper and random debris
swirl like leaves
then land and float
on the surface of the stream.

The sidewalk's a trail
meandering along
under the trees.

Dogs are coyotes
creeping down the trail,
heads low,
menacing yellow eyes darting
between parked cars 
that are boulders
surrounded by high grass 
and thick undergrowth.

"Rickey, grande latte!"
a barista yells
out the open door.

I stand up
out of my chair,
off my rock, 
maybe off my log,
to retrieve my coffee,
shattering my urban forest fantasy.