Dead cars, stripped for parts, rest on cinder blocks
hidden by weeds where rusted bikes and plastic toys
lie like bones amid rubble heaps, burn piles, cast-off
electronics, tires, shoes, decaying shirts, a cracked coffee pot
brimming with rainwater, its glass green with algal bloom.
A blue tarp hangs from the front porch, flaps in wind,
reveals holes in a shredded screen, and a woman
waving as I pass, two children in diapers at her feet.
A chained gray dog awakens from dust at the mouth
of its igloo-shaped house, grunts but does not rise
as I wave back, walking home. Though strangers,
we share this place’s burdens: the manufactured fear
for the authentic, the condescension for the simple
splendor of a post, made from a fallen branch, sunk
in red clay beside scrap metal, holding a feeder filled
with sugar water that a hummingbird sips, gray-green
gemstone, its heart a fire churning a thousand beats a minute,
adorning this yard, arrayed as no suburban standard could be.