A Belated Rejoinder To
Neil Young
It stands in the southwest
corner of the
backyard awash in
periwinkle, tucked
between the forsythia and
the Rose
of Sharon, a spindly
lookout for fat
robins in spring or the
jittery hordes
of squirrels that throng
in all four seasons, a
burgeoning conclave locked
in a constant
state of turf war racing
along the length
of entangled inelegant
rods or
pausing to survey the
terrain from the
vantage of the slanted
ovals arranged
at oblique angles, a shaky
marriage
of bent, ribbed rebar and diamond
plate put
to the torch, shaped and
cut, welded, de-burred
to no useful purpose,
implacable
witness to the passage of
time measured
in imperceptible oxidation
of alloy, beautiful,
consuming rust.
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