Get Every Last Crumb

One afternoon, a road runner
Struts purposefully past the porch.
Another, a tall jackrabbit.

Not signs of abundance, of course.
Niche compression again—you’re in
Their old territorial haunts.

Confess it, you’ve been doing this
All your life, marginal person.
Moving as far out as you can,

Or as far as you can afford,
Which generally means moving in
Where someone’s just built new buildings

To profit off the likes of you.
Remember the great blue heron
Behind your apartment complex?

The green and gorgeous luna moths
Pressed against your plate-glass window?
The foxes that approached your door?