--for John
my neighbors ’74 pickup, red body, blue hood,
rakes and shovels tied to the side with electric
cords; the fence made of painted doors; white
washed tires cut into scalloped planters; blessed
Mary protected by an upturned bathtub; that sunken
barn in a scarred field; fishline and a pair of bobbers
caught in poplar branches; your rowboat; your rawhide
laces tied three times around your ankle; the mudcaked
boots on the smoothed doorstep; the garage window
patched with cardboard; the flag pole used
as a tomato stake; the 1963 license plate from
your brother’s 1963 Harley; that cracked
leather jacket; your scarred fingernail; the scar
across the palm of your hand; my real bowie knife
with chipped bone handle; your hammer, the one
I painted red; shower curtains used as drop clothes;
clotheslines; clothespins; your hat, the one you didn’t take.
