The Four Directions
Helen Wickes

From the southern exposure, hot sun,
two freeways—their endless thrum—
and lonesome dogs next door. From north,
more freeways and garbage guys scavenging
all night. The west brings trucks, crazy Janice,
psycho Greg—off his meds—unleashed dogs,
unleashed people. Ask why I don’t move,
I’ll tell you: the east is cool and dark, silent,
fern-shaded, crawling with vines wanting
no light, no attention, asking you to be still.
Often the voices of the dead can be heard.
Good days, they offer respite among plants
that lead their small, unknowable lives.

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