Mint lattes were spilt high,
reaching for the pavement.
Neon-green drops plopping
back onto the dreaded pavement;
Down below, jealousy reigns:
“And you nymph can go back,
back onto the pavement
dressed in the green of all your leaves.
But don’t feel targeted, please,
because I’ve got a mind about some trees.
Leuce, you’re white like a preferred virgin,
bright like a seraph.
But tell me now poplar, popular,
your time stands still;
are you better off dead?
Where’s your god now?
He’s serving time in the marriage bed.”