The Deck of Socrates

I have watched the stalks
as they pop up each year.
In shadow, a chipmunk
broods over a flower,
smelling a spring so dismal
he wonders why he even
bothered fattening himself
on his stores. Noon comes
round bored, bringing the
hemlock to burn away
the fog in my throat.
Each time I wipe the sweat
from my bottom lip,
the stain on my shirt deepens.
Past the fence, a few boys
turn a snake inside-out
with a firecracker,
tossing the punctured
exoskeleton into my yard.
They think this is funny.
Then the chipmunk hides
beneath the deck, weaving
the cold shadows with
fragments of scales,
until it almost lives again.
Planted firmly, the
stalks of suffering
sway gently during rain,
but otherwise do nothing,
and after so many springs
I have seen enough of them.