Driving Home

by Kaili Doud

We could call it an orb like many others have,
     the November sun—great and glowing

as it breathes marigolds in sparkling sheets
     over the damp city asphalt.

This evening is cold and branchy,
     and that orb is setting like a sinking chin,

dusting fricatives of goldish light over this tourist trap
     we call Earth.

Were we so lucky to be a mystery like Mars,
     or an endless anger like Jupiter,

we could call it cruel, or not enough.