Vacant lot, you’re a world unto yourself. 
I thrill to stop and gaze into you.
I see crusted truck tracks through an old puddle, a topography – a topography for Christ’s sake, 
I’m so hungry to see some shape in the dirt,
I see borderlines of tall weeds 
And grass growing in bunches of an infinite variety of heights. 
Even your tin cans look good – they’re so crumpled and dusty.
Vacant lot, I ache, I literally ache when I see you. 
How long will they let you go on like this?