The sky, with its pimped up lights, is zoned
for serendipitous crossings with moon.
Please—zone it in a little closer.
Please stranger—I’m pretending not to like you.
Like you know the difference between a good duct-cleaning
and a bad bottle of wine—
like you’re trying to house a horse
in an RS-12 zone—
in a perfect storm of limiting factors.
Mixed-use urban renewal is out by the pond
killing flies instead of fishing. My neighbor’s purple C-cup,
dangling above the dirt, is zoned in a historic overlay district,
custody of the Historic Preservation Review Board.
Please—let me cry and learn to self-zone.
Bring in the BB gun—and later the welts.