in which the lizard

I watch a lizard scamper up the path, tail twitching as it goes
and stops and goes and goes overtop the cinder block wall


while a woodpecker knocks on the telephone pole smashing
its head into the wood and I too am frantic in a spilled-coffee


way, watching the same guy morning day and night walk past
the window where I cling to the element of time by opening


and closing the blinds and my daylily is dying a death by
smothering drowning hovering as it goes on coughing up


stems and leaves and imagining any number of things that
need treating: root rot, calcium, hard spot on right thigh, blood-


shot eyes, and I wonder if the woodpecker gets lost in its own
repetition, or if the lizards know where to go, or if the point is


the going, because what else is there when the world leans in
with its sun-baked bricks: too hot to touch.

Cassie Von Alst lives and writes in Phoenix, AZ. Her writing has appeared in The Poeming Pigeon and primarily in coffee-stained notebooks. She has read and listened to poems in dive bars and coffee shops around the country. Twitter: @cvonalst