In the cemetery, which, if you believe it,
is where I spend most mornings. I have
an arrangement with a few bucks. I show them
how to walk on hind legs – they struggle
to eat from their favorite trees. They tell me
what the city sounds like from their home
in the trees. My home in the city, which isn’t
much of a city, sounds like a girl unsure
if she can sing, despite the singing. A nod
of his antlers to the statue mid-dance,
I understand that he wants a song. I pretend
I don’t know the words, then look at my phone.
I find your email then, but I refuse to read
past the first line. I have lessons to give.