Traces of past lives scattered in my green
of the New York City dream
So little remains
of our quiet respites in the shade
of our old soul
that cash has claimed.
Remember them like you’ll remember me
when trucks start rolling in
to strip down every last tree.
Think of them like you’ll think of me
when spring rolls around without an ounce of green
and the birds have lost their place to sleep
and you’ve lost your garden to greed.