What
the Neighbor Has
My neighbor
returns from the market,
a solitary bag in hand.
I feel I’ve learned a secret about her
when I see black strands among ivory.
In her garden sits a watering can,
white with painted flowers.
It waits patiently for her,
the Blue Daze in the background
waving her a welcome home.
I have a gasoline can,
standard, no frills, orange.
It sits in the carport, disapproving.
I have no excuses
for calf high grass
except that I see paths here,
paths that remember dirty bare feet
heedless of stinging ants.
Another day, I’ll let them go
and make way for new paths.
Sometimes, I count strands, ivory among black,
but I can see nothing to fear
in a white watering can with painted flowers.
Copyright © 2000 Angela Davis Tartaglia
