of Miami ends at the side streets—
where rectangle houses sit like bricks
and window bars keep out the bad guys.
Out near our curb stands an ancient oak.
A storm left it bent but not uprooted.
It moved with the wind but didn’t break.
Back in the back, beside our garage,
the banana tree shades our rusted mustang
and fruit is blooming under the fronds.
But proper palms stand along the highway.
Woven trunks tower, their green flags waive
to welcome the tourists driving south.
The glamour of Miami is a nailed–in board
that props up a palm against gravity.
