The sky is not that big, just closer than you think

Our flat is downstairs and underground
Our building is flanked by a perfect lawn, two nice trees
And an oilfield jack pump that goes up and down.
To the south is a welding business

Our flat is rocking
Bricks break, cracks creep
Sand and sediment shift the foundation

The bedroom floor buckled
Its downhill to the window,
We put a brick under the box-spring
So we can lay low

My landlady sprays our building weekly
A hired man with a truck, and a tank of blue
Soaks those nice trees and leaves

Sometimes he comes by
With green for the lawn
He puts up little yellow flags
We stay off until it rains

She waters the perfect lawn in high noon heat and again six hours at night.
The street floods, all summer, a pond at the corner, stagnant water breeding thousands of mosquitoes.

The city hired a crop duster to spray for mosquitoes. The first time that plane buzzed our building I thought we were being attacked by air. I jumped out of bed and ran to close the windows before the bombs fell.


Presently we watch a back hoe to dig up her buried sprinkler lines
The city wants to improve drainage on the street. We watch
Lighting arcing behind us
Sand shifting under our feet
In the shadow of a oilfield jack pump
Breathing excavator diesel
With a aura of blue green vapor

With my baby in my arms

Wondering,

Is it safe?