Monday, December 13, 2004


The radio crackles though wood grain speakers
And I laze with the windows open
Sun drowsing the flies until they walk
Pictures fade in the glare on the west wall

The cedar tree in the front yard tips towards the house
Roots sprawled in the heat clasp the spongy earth
The low roof glances down in silence
To where tomato vines once clung to string

The small bedroom feels hollow
With the mattress lying on the floor
Empty closets behind closed doors resound
The last footsteps in this final act

Cracked weatherboards patched for the sale
Are pale with their mask of paint
Memories that remain faint sketches when covered
Read like stories in the dents and etches

Those with history here can see them
Even the ones burned in the rusted oil barrel
And the sound of almost feral bursts of laughter
Recalled by the ears and nerves who heard

For the man who lived here died here
And left his soul here
Mainly in the dried lawn cut while it was green
And in the screen of a hedge encircled like a fortress wall
That made the large world
The brutal world
Seem more assuring and small.