Wasn’t so sure if anyone was around last night.
Large, strange wooden doors off their hinges,
cheap gutters blown off the roof,
half hanging into the unkempt yew shrubbery next to the patio.
All over the yard, randomly distributed ash trays filled with last year’s cigarette butts and this week’s rain—
water now murky and dark, the color of a sky about to storm.
An ashtray has been placed, teetering on the edge of a rotting picnic table in the corner of the yard.
Another lies adjacent to a broken stone cherub and chipped angel,
the ashtray made of glass, reflecting light.
Spent butts are strewn about willy-nilly,
now amongst the shoddy winter burnt boxwood hedge,
tangled in escaped Tradescantia.
Ahhhh! And the garage—so stuffed full of things I chuckle:
multiple heights of ladders, half inside, half outside,
holding up the garage door a crack.
No room for a single vehicle or mower,
letting stray cats come and go,
lapping up water from assorted ashtrays—
no one all the wiser.
Thanks for the new word of the day: Tradescantia. For a minute, I thought you made it up.
A good moon for this mooncalf. I housepaint and have an easy peasy relationship with houses and still they resemble moonshots of little fires to attend, how could the hoyse not have a flakey side? My new Favorite movie John Hyston durected a Moulin Rouge abt Mr. Nobody Touloyse L. Is very good.