Driving Over Tinfoil

I wish it were lemons that I drive over.

Not fruit at all in fact - it’s just some tinfoil.

It flashes in the sun, the burn marks

visible only on cloudy days.

Every size and shape, torn by

(shaking) human hand -or starving stray

dog’s mouth- litters this mud and rubble

track not fifteen meters from the front

door. Strange fruit of strangers’ addiction

scarring dry grass; the dragon’s chased breath is

flammable and burns much more than dreams.