Lemon / Ice / Mosquito / King Cake

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We drip a spaghetti trickle from the tap
and hope the hard freeze doesn’t
bust the pipes. Trees drop their lemons,
little bitter balls left to rot in a warmer
not-too-distant future on puddled sidewalks
beside broken beads, fallen feathers,
and so much glitter that just couldn’t hang on.
Yesterday I got eaten up by mosquitoes
while preparing for the storm and now
I itch, mindlessly scratch at red welts
lining my arms and calves, I water the plants
we’ve plopped in every vacant corner and on
each empty surface of our home. Last week
I got the baby in my slice of King Cake at work
and thought great, maybe it’ll be a lucky year,
then found, the next morning, a hole in my window
and my car totaled in a shooting I slept through,
and now the refrain of voices - it could have been worse.
I need to buy the next King Cake. The knife stays in the box
but I pry the spent bullet from the window frame,
save it in a tiny Ziploc baggie in our junk drawer,
just in case. What passes as luck here is terrifying and
this place is beautiful, is a feast for the senses,
is draining me dry.

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