1. At the right angle you can see clear through
    The hole punched by fire in the gable of the house
    That flared down the street a couple of years ago.

    An unintended window. A patch of blue sky
    Framed by blackened roof. On damper, grey
    Days I think I can smell the muddy ashes still.

    The wretched, both the old lady who dozed off
    With her cigarette and the family next door,
    Got out alright — but neither have returned.

    A demolition company’s contraption has been
    Parked in the driveway for what seems like
    An eternity. Insurance hang ups, I suppose.

    The ring of orange safety cones didn’t stay long,
    But chain link fencing still rings the garden
    With its sooty cooking pots full of dirty water.

    There, amid shingle debris and unraked leaves
    Discolored and matted by winter’s snowfall,
    A little green has begun to shoot through.

    Onions, I suspect, although I dream of tulips.
    Within a couple of days I’ll know for sure
    What wonders this springtime has in store.


  2. I hope that unfortunate garden was not subsequently afflicted
    By a flood, and that those bulbs were able to pursue
    Their way towards becoming onions or tulips.


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