Late
May
Sundown,
weekdays
I creep weary to window,
uncertain on arthritic knee,
watch rush hour traffic
grind up Willow Hill.
Rusted
tail pipes
tap and cough
their noxious fumes.
Radio
rock blares.
Yawning drivers
creak open windows.
Battered
vans, dented sedans
pass our frail, once-white fence,
its open-backward gateway lock
splintered by wildness and wine.
Bent pickets
endure--
shoulder a load.
The cascade of ramblers,
long and leggy, survive
to offer budding roses,
tender and fragrant.
Copyright © 2001 Sandy Steinman
