he and the carpenter stood together in the back yard
discussing the future of her garden, the position of
the berry brambles that tended to lean over the stone
path leading to the backyard, whether the tin roof
should be replaced with cheap plastic that would let
the sun in until it turned yellow and stained.
she would never forgive them when the berries
no longer draped themselves over the stones
as offerings from the gods, when the tapping
of rain drops was against cracked plastic that
needed to be replaced every five years, the
shards decorating some distant landfill.
this is her garden of flowers scattered among
the stones, where black ravens bow their heads
to drink clear water amidst irises pushing up
from a long winter sleep.
Sum$ of money flowing from my taxes
to the U.S. Dept of the Treasury
for the bailouts for the millionaires
now resting in one of their five homes
as they retire from their strenuous
undertakings defrauding the American
taxpayers, may they rot in hell.
When the Chinook winds blow
from the west he starts riding to nowhere
while I sleep fitfully against an acoustic backdrop
of groaning tree trunks, wildly jangling wind chimes,
the sirens of fire trucks woohwaah in their search
for the non-existent entrance to our neighborhood.
his green flag whips in the wind, his wheels
wobble as they spin; in all this din all he can do
is helplessly spin in the wind, like so many
tumbleweeds rolling this way and that
across the lonely highway.
they faced away from us towards the river,
each ripple shimmering in reflected light.
we knew their eyes were bright watching the
ducks dancing nearby, her arms reaching out
to touch them from high up on his shoulders
until he lifts her from his shoulders and then
holds her close by the water, her small arms
still reaching to the ducks, calling them,
the light shimmering on the water, the ducks
and the man and the girl all one in the night
as we watched from above.