LEAF

If I had to be a leaf,
I would be upset
at having to listen to my twigmates' swaying,
and their stupid, petty rustles.
I would want to hit them,
but I wouldn't have arms.
Leaves don't have arms.

I would count the days
until autumn walks in, imperious,
fashionably late,
and bakes us up all red,
old and broken.

I would leap from my branch,
alone at last,
to be sucked under the wheel of a car,
spat out,
and stomped on by a laughing child.