Urban Forest

i like to be mad. mad at my next-door neighbor, mad at the corporate-run grocery stores, mad at the weather, at chronically online culture, and at the circumstances that make me weak.

you see, i can’t name these circumstances because naming them would make them real. 

the tiny forest down the street also has a reason to be mad. the roots beneath it ache under the weight of used tires, fast food wrappers, broken containers, discarded shoes and jackets and underwear, but the creatures who call it home adapt. 

i am a creature in an urban forest and i, too, was forced to adapt. i play in my sandpit, poking pebbles with a stick. building castles is for the wolves, i’m told, and i’m a raccoon in a rusted keg, hiding from the rain.