I was asked to show up with a side dish. I made
A slaw of my longing. I had to keep it crisp. Nothing goes
Bad in a backyard, if you catch my drift. In a
Backyard everything is available like a catalog
World, viz.: I carried a plastic basket of fluffed
Clean clothes propped on one hip as if
A small, outdoor-fresh child. Time it takes
To smoke a 100, I’ll’ve forgotten the second
Of three friends gone. Dry-skin sky. Heartless jolt
Of a lawnmower kicking forward into gear. Wind
Punch at a pinned-up line of blue bedsheets so to
tell us about What’s Coming. Porch chimes aren’t
As dumb as you think they are. Oh bright laundry:
I like it when my stomach feels starved
For home. Hands trolling the dirty
Dishwater for lost forks. Facts:
Straw is to heartless body as I lied when I said I hope
I’ll see you all again is to Come home. I like a lot of you
Most of the time, but I got my favorites. Don’t matter
Which bricked world I thought I was living in,
The dog had his name, at least. The scarecrow was only
Ever called Scarecrow. Wind swing a backyard gate
Left open so to tell us about What’s Gone.
Heart is to lost laundry as—Q: What if
I don’t need to borrow any more boys’
T- shirts for bed. What if I’m already stuffed. Still,
Those were the days, though, I tell you what! The way
I made a sky-blue gingham of my teenage years…
Before sleep, I like to think about all those snaking roads, &
The band geeks not wearing their seatbelts, & the prom-
Fluffed girls like sugar roses on grocery-
Store sheet cakes, floating up the ladders
Of small-town watertowers to graffiti
Their triumphant 1989, sloppy in the flashlight
Moon. Oh sugar roses, I didn’t even want to say that
Part about the moon, but we’re all going down together.
When I didn’t know what to make, I made
Breakfast. Chimes are to sorry as the secondhand
Smell of gasoline is to a twelve-year-old
Saturday morning. I want
To buy all the trucks parked for sale
In all the front yards in Virginia.