Leaf

A brown leaf I found out front our house, flitting around in the grass waiting to be crumbled but just before I was going to snap it at the middle along the curve and let it be winnowed away, it struck me how early it was for the crumbling leaves, the kind that have dried out and hardened on the sidewalk through September and October and into November, but here it is intruding on August, or rather August is intruding on it like wildfire and maybe I'll light the leaf on fire instead of crumbling it, it is awfully soon to be crumbling, I don't want to seem too forward--do you suppose the leaf has a preference? Like how people put it in their will to be buried or cremated or eaten like a holiday squash, I don't really care as long as there's steamed crabs and beer--yes, but what about the leaf? The leaf, right, the leaf I found out front our house, and by our house I mean the lunchbox we rent at the end of the street with the whole wall tiled in mirrors, except for a few that must've broken or fallen out and were replaced with cheap linoleum floor tiles that used to be white and the bug crawling across my laptop screen is so shockingly green it must be a cyber matrix bug, sent from the internet to eat the leaf before I can crumble it in my greasy palm, because I'm so busy trying to write a goddamnKeats Ode on a Grecian Urn about a leaf I found out front our house today, around that weird time between afternoon and evening, when the sun is still hot but you can see the moon on the opposite horizon.