We get it, you love leaves. You love jumping
into piles of them—red, brown, orange, gold—
it doesn’t matter. You love dry humping
the green off of them. It never gets old
to you, but listen: please find a new note.
You’ve been blaring this one for centuries,
and it bores me to tears. It’s time you wrote
poems that are less obsessed with the trees
you miraculously find in your yard
every morning, like it’s a surprise:
“Wow! Look at those leaves! It’s like a postcard
right outside my window!” Shoot me now. Try
something original; forget this shit
about foliage. No one’s reading it.