ERICA DAWSON
OCD
The learned men call it all a true
Emergency, the summer's long,
Tireless drought. And I walk through
The public park breaking the thong
Of my flip flop, limping in strong
Heat while the proletariat
Of honey-suckle limps along.
Quod me nutrit me destruit.
When Death strolls past, what will they do,
The pussy-willows in the throng
Of goldenrod turned brown, but cue
The organ, its sepulchral song
In desiccating sun, belong
To soil which can again be fit?
The bell will toll—one loud ding-dong.
Quod me nutrit me destruit.
Deep in the trees, two schoolboys chew
Clover and toss their homemade bong
Inside a bag when I step through
The bush. The smell of smoke hangs strong.
They stay with me, wading the long
Path of the littered rivulet.
Without a clue, they nod along.
Quod me nutrit me destruit.
I always know where I belong.
Lock all the gates. I'm desperate
To hear birds sing my constant song
Quod me nutrit me destruit. 
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