Black Iron Railing
There are coffee colored cracks
In the plastic cup
That I lift
As I look
At the pine tree that didn’t take
It died in the hole
As did the five others
I planted that summer
That you left.
There are no chairs
Just dirty beige walls
That resist decoration
Every finger print murmurs
What I don’t want to see.
So, I’m talking to a black Iron Railing
Passing what passes for time
The grass is full of weeds
Sprouting pods and slinging seeds
And I have no one
To play the back nine
The paint on the gutter
Above the siding that shows the number
Of my house
Is falling one chip at a time.
This black Iron
Holds up its end
Of the talk
This railing doesn’t fume or sulk.
The souls of the pines
Crawl in the telephone lines
And I’m looking for where mine will go.
So, I’m talking to a black Iron railing
Passing what passes for time
The grass is full of weeds
Sprouting pods and slinging seeds
And I have no one
To mow the back nine.
Joshua Kight 3/1/08