The neighbors trimmed their trees 
and piled the carcasses of 
catalpa and volunteer maple 
deep along the side of the street, 
an encroachment into the path 
through which the rest of us 
must navigate, a narrow pass 
between piles of severed limbs, 
leaves gone brown and curling 
inward like shy creatures, 
vehicles too large to pass abreast, 
the irritation of those within 
palpable as they wait their turn, 
or don’t, and risk the raking 
of the dead and dying against 
gleaming factory finishes, 
I see you in the rearview mirror, 
a shadow behind tinted glass, 
your face obscured, your hands 
beating the wheel, are you 
singing along with the music 
on the radio or shouting at me 
to hurry up, I don’t know any 
more how to tell the difference.