Zoning

Zoning

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.