Today Staying Yesterday

How protective the weeds surrounding

the rusted stove and fridge in his front yard,

where an old VW with its wheels gone

holds vigil outside his rural shack with

plastic-sheet-curtain covering his once window,

before moonshine empties crashed through glass,

and July fireworks filled the air

with the toxic odor of celebration.

So comes the heavy air of another summer.

Out front, the rutted road unites its dust

to the erosion of man and machine,

even as an ill-tempered junk-yard dog

watches over what is left of this man’s life

and barks at anyone eyeing the front yard possessions

including the cobwebbed mailbox still waiting

the postman’s delivery of a remembrance family-letter

that seems to be lost in the mail…

every day.