cherry orchard
they cut down the last cherry orchard,
replaced it with a townhouse complex
they named the cherry orchard.
thirty-two new nests for birds
with wireless wings and SUVs.
they beefed up the bus patrol,
yellow machines headed to crowded schools.
for $72 a semester, a six-year-old may ride it,
her transport to a class of 35, led by a teacher
who shares a townhouse with three women.
they widened my on-ramp
with tainted money from the state,
four lanes instead of two.
so when will I have time to admire the view,
the dark mountains, perfect sky?
they raised my rent, the interest on my debt.
they cut my office staff in half,
colored my checkbook red, white and blue.
they said I don�t work hard enough,
long enough, fast enough, good enough.
they closed two counters at the post office,
two checkstands at the grocer,
two emergency rooms, two schools,
two independent businesses, two freeways for repair,
two restaurants here and there.
they cut down the last cherry orchard,
i watched it go, i watched it fall.
they tell me little girls are murdered here,
but the sailing�s nice and the weather�s grand
and the cherries from back east taste fine.