Poem of the Week 7/24/18
A plane bound for Teterboro airport may someday crash into my backyard,
onto my house, onto me and the cat,
onto the dense line of trees that forms the back property line
and the north-east corner where the picnic table and grill sit on the patio,
onto the side porch of the house, with steps
going down either side to both front and back yards,
which on that day will be in flames.
The white plastic fences, guaranteed for a lifetime, no painting required ever,
curve concavely, coquettishly into my yard,
fold neatly into the burning fuselage,
which will blaze brightly,
as suddenly splendid as lighter fluid on charcoal
when a wooden strike-anywhere match
swiped across patio slate is thrown into the barbeque grill.
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